Unwritten Tales: Into The Dark Again
by Wayfarer
Summary: GapFiller: At Gandalf’s behest, the relentless Aragorn finds Gollum and brings him to the Elvenking's Halls after a long search. Left in the Mirkwood Elves' care after Gandalf’s ‘interview’, Gollum is restive … while the shadows stir.
1. Standard Incidentals, Credits, Reference...

**NOTE**: All "Elvish Translations" is under "Reference" on this page

**INTO THE DARK AGAIN  
**by_ Wayfarer  
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)_

* * *

**Rambling Amblings**

_29 DEC 05_ Happy new year! Here's an ITDA update at last. I apologise for the rather short chapter - it has been foreshortened due to problems with my webmail server: it flatlined for a few months, and only got resuscitated a few days ago. The grind is that my ideas and updates were all stored there and everything was wiped during its comatosis - everything! Now, not only have I lost all those remnants of my memory,I can't send update notices to the patient people who are waiting on ITDA to move along, because the address book was destroyed too.

The most devastating bit is that I can't even re-read the kind encouraging personal emails from readers who liked ITDA and other stories... which is what I habitually do when I need some pick-me-up.

Chapter 4 was originally conceptualised as you-know-who's coming out party, but I had to take out the action since most of the lost bits of stuff are about this part. All that's left of 4 is the travellers' first visit to Thranduil. I do hope that readers find **Under Shadow Eaves** worth the wait. Thank you for your patience.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER**

Standard disclaimers apply. I write for self-amusement and am no Tolkien scholar, so any questions, comments, please send email to _closet _or simply leave a review here. I will gladly respond and correct errors that crop up. Thank you.

**SUMMARY**

  
_Gap-Filler: _At Gandalf's behest, the relentless Aragorn finds Gollum and brings him to the Elvenking's Halls after a long search. Left in the Mirkwood Elves' care after Gandalf's 'interview', Gollum is restive … while the shadows stir. 

A story that tells of the pre-LotR events surrounding the hunt for Gollum: from the meeting which began Aragorn's hunt to Gollum's eventual capture and 'inquisition', and his stay with the Elves and subsequent escape from Mirkwood. Specific focus is on events that bear direct relation to the hunt and imprisonment of Gollum. Referenced canon in order: LotR, Hobbit, Silmarillion.

_(Constructive criticism most welcome.) _

_Note: _Contains minor original characters, as dictated by storyline and plot flow.

_The "Unwritten Tales" _is Wayfarer's attempt at a canon-conscientious series to fill in the gaps of the epic tale of LotR.

**RATING**: PG13 for action/skirmishes and some graphic imagery. (Non-slash, non-language).  
**GENRE**: Action/Adventure/Drama.

_(This story was first published on 14 Apr 2002 here on as 'The Journey Begins' (story id 720121) under the pen-name feverdream). _

**KUDOS and ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS**

  
It feels like the Valar are smiling on my nervous forays into writing, because I don't know how else to explain the wonderful help I've received:  
_**Avallon **_: My first and original beta and fellow closet writer, and the one who gave me that nudge out the door. From answering questions (some really ridiculous) to providing elvish phrases and names, she's been wonderful! And much thanks to her for the unflagging support, from cheering on the sidelines to rolling up her sleeves to wade through my drafts, and especially for never balking from the nth mutations of musie' fickle and haphazard scribbles. _May the Vala bless communal perving with unflagging enthusiasm_

_**Windfola** (also published here)_: Hats off to an awesome writer with the language abilities to match, for the wonderful edits and advice, especially for the prologue and the chapters "Shadows In The Mirk" and "In Bree Long-Ago, A Meeting Called In Haste" (formerly, "Of A Long-Ago Meeting") in particular– this amateur has learnt much. I am indebted to the software crisis of Jun 2002 ;P because without it, I would not have gotten to know such a fantastic writer. Well, better late than never!

_**Vana **(also published here as **Vana Tuivana**)_: Amazing is dismally inadequate to describe Vana's patience while I wander around the lands of ME finding my pace and getting musie up to scratch with canon, but it's the best I can do and I'm sure she view this minuscule shortfall with her usual fortitude. Alas for her, now in addition to cheering, I've got her helping with Elvish phrases and names as well.

_**Rosa **_: For her interest and, not least, enthusiastic encouragement when this piece was still in its VERY juvenile stage was and whose support is much cherished. I hope you are well.

_**Eledhwen **_: A short piece that suggested Bilbo and Estel would have crossed paths when the hobbit went adventuring with the Dwarves by her sent me down the path of in-depth details for that feature Gandalf-Aragorn conversation in "A Meeting Called In Haste".

_**Lyllyn **_: A most helpful lady, I am thankful for her prompt response to a distress call and her generous donation of possible Beorning names.

_**Antoinette **_: Appreciate the help she readily provided with some questions about seasonal settings for "Shadows In The Mirk".

_**Errors and omissions remain utterly faults of mine.**_

**REFERENCE**

  


**Elvish Translations**

  
_Aaye_ Hail  
_Diola lle _Thank you  
_Elen sila lumenn omentilmo_ A star shall shine on the hour of our meeting  
_Lle desiel _Are you ready  
_Mae govannen_ Well met  
_Quel esta_ Good night  
_Quel fara_ Good hunting  
_Quel re_ Good day  
_Tenna' ento lye omenta_ Until next we meet  
_Yis_ Yes 

**RESOURCES**

  
_Books_: 1) The Lord of the Rings; 2) The Hobbit; 3) The Unfinished Tales (Thanks to Windfola and Singe Aliene for sending the priceless nuggets my way). 

_Online_: 1) Encyclopedia of Arda; 2) Merriam-Webster Online

**Characters**

**List of Main Characters  
**Gollum/Smeagol, Aragorn, Gandalf, Thranduil (Everything flawed and fair belongs to Avallon, this guy's based on her exclusive Thranduil!Template afterall), Legolas

**List of Minor Canon Characters  
**Barliman Butterbur, Nob,Halbarad (Thanks to Windfola for allowing me to referenceher personal Halbarad!Template), Ferny, Galion

**List of Original Characters  
_Beornings_** : Baran and Bereg (name suggestions source courtesy of **_Lyllyn_**), Belen  
_**Elves**_ (names courtesy of _**Avallon**_ and **_Vana_**) : Calendring, Dinhorn, Egalmoth  
_**Orcs**_ (names plucked from thin air and from an onlinerandom name generator) : Grusluk, Orskash, Snoga (one whimper). None-speaking parts: Snikdúsh, Bog, Ogluk,Sguk.


	2. PROLOGUE: Out Of The Mountains' Mist

**INTO THE DARK AGAIN  
**by_ Wayfarer  
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)_

**Prologue  
****Out Of The Mountains' Mist**

High in the Hithaeglir the wind blazed forth every September, an early herald of the long march of Winter. Gleeful howls grew increasing loud as autumn waned; it would touch everything with icy fingers, and cover the hardening ground with a fine layer of frost, for its strength it drew from the advancing cold that crept down from the highest peaks.

And oft it was said that things other than winter chill were borne on the shrieking wind, that whispers of secrets echoing in caves deep in the mountains' bowels were gathered in its scouring grasp and scattered far and wide as it raced forth to claim the lands. So it might seem on a dark autumn night, when deep amongst the high places of the peaks, an unknown cavern murmured, low and guttural. Yet it was not giving up its own secrets, merely repeating to the wind the wails of the creature that hid near its back.

Indignant cries echoed within the cavern: 'Precious! Where is the Precious?' On all fours, he paced the stone hollow, bemoaning his loss. Sullen resentment flared, rising ever high for he was angry: with himself for his carelessness, and for the time spent indulging in the game instead of breaking the thief's neck quickly. But more than all else, it was the bold cunning of the thief that infuriated him.

'Tricksy thief, Baggins stole our Precious. It cheated us, we hates it and we wants the Precious back!' He raved, maddened again.

His back against the trapdoor, he pondered the cold walls spreading away from it. Dark nooks dented the stone, running the entire lengths of the walls, leading to the blocked cavern mouth.

Behind him, the trapdoor opened onto a tunnel, part of the goblin thoroughfare.

Without the magic of the Precious to make him invisible, it would have been folly to approach the goblin tunnels; but no longer, for they were gone. Their disappearance mattered not at all, save that there was much less meat for him. In truth he could not care less, if they had not vanished soon after his Precious was stolen.

'Baggins took it, nasty thief,' he hissed. 'We guessed what was in its pocketses, we did -- if only we guessed sooner, precious, Ach!'

Back and forth he paced before the trapdoor, stamping and kicking the pebbles cluttering his way.

Anger quickened his steps, until he began pacing in a circle. Ever wider his course grew, but always it brought him back to the trapdoor -- until it grew so large that it reached the cave entrance.

Surprised at having his pacing suddenly stopped, his anger crumbled, and he fell onto his knees. Feet splayed while gnarled fingers kneaded the hard stone floor, he sat glaring at the boulder guarding the entrance, like a door left ajar in careless haste. Near to his busy hands, an unfamiliar sight attracted his eyes. Though he did not remember when he last saw such light, he tried not to stare at the bright lance cast upon the floor, for he remembered its name.

'Don't look precious, the hateful White Face burns. Oh, our eyes! _Gollum_.' He squatted just beyond the light's reach, listening to the mournful wind force its way through the narrow gap in the ponderous stone door.

Shadows flitted past, slicing through the thin shard of light. Startled, he scrambled for the trapdoor, hiding well behind it.

At length, he put his face around the shield of the door. From the safety of his vantage point, he stared again at the gap that led out of the cave.

'Can we gets the Precious back?' he asked. 'Rush us and crush us, it's beyond the stony door – _gollum_. But the nasty light, it'll burn us. We can't go there, precious.'

Then his voice changed as his other self began to wail: 'But the Precious, what about the Precious? Baggins must be taking it away, further every day!'

'Yes, we knows, precious can't be happy 'til he gets it back, but we is famished,' said the first thought. 'Fissh! Yes, food helps us think. Maybe we'll finds a way after we eat – sss.'

As time passed, he found himself spending his time in the cave. Always, he sat just beyond the reach of White Face, and thought about the piercing light that kept him prisoner while the thief carried the Precious further and further away from him.

--- --- ---

Once, he entered the cave with caution, and snuffled at the dissimilarity he felt. Yet, his sensitive nose could tell no discernible difference. Confused, he began pacing, wondering.

'What is it, precious? What's - _gollum_ - changed now?' Muttering to himself, he almost walked into the great stone door. Just in time, he stopped, flopping down in a clumsy heap.

He cocked his head at the door. 'Blesses and splashes!' he laughed. 'Sss - White Face doesn't spy us.'

Indeed, there was no painful lance of light that marked the end of his familiar course.

He remembered then another thing about White Face: it was hateful but it could not espy him every night, for it had to sleep too. And when it slept, it could not hurt his eyes with its unabashed staring. Cackling at the re-discovered weakness of White Face, he clapped and gloated: 'Sss - it can't hurt us tonight, precious!'

Beyond the great stone door the wind mimicked his mournful cry for the Precious. He glared at the door. Gaining courage from White Face's absence, he thrust his head through the gap.

Instantly, he retracted it. Boneless with stunned senses, he slumped down where he sat.

A glimmering pale covered the distant lands that lied beyond, and his hissing breath misted in the chill. The dark roof of the sky was too far away, and there was nothingness between it and the mountainside. If it was all darkness, it might have gone the better, for had he not lived his life in the lightless bowels of the Misty Mountains? But the nasty stars piercing the black fabric of night: they gave out such dim light that his eyes could bear to see them. Yet, in seeing them, he realized the depth of the sky they were hanging in, and that described the empty space between them and the ground he stood on. The nothingness filling that space overwhelmed him, drowning the ever present thoughts of the Precious for a breath.

Rare were the moments when he did not think of the Precious, and he felt suddenly very small, as he sat there, gulping the cold air.

'Ach! The Outside is a BIG room, precious. How can we finds the Precious out there?' He began to wail, 'Lost, it's really lost! Baggins, we hates it for ever!'

'No, no! It can't be! I promised, its mine and I won't ever lose it -- I must find it!' came the answer.

'Yes, we must, mustn't we? Must get the Precious back!' he said with determination. 'But we needs some fissh before we begins.'

And so he retreated deep underground. Upon his island throne out in the lonely mere he sat, and barely tasted the large-eyed fish that filled his mouth.

He was in the cave again, wondering about how far away his lost Precious was. The vastness that had swallowed it daunted him. Curses he threw at the hateful White Face gave vent to his seething anger, but not for long.

Though he knew not why, he began to count the nights between White Face's time of hiding. With effort he strove to keep the memory of his count firmly in his head though it ached; it seemed he could think of nothing but his loss, torn between his fear of White Face and the need to answer the Precious' pull.

Whenever White Face slept, he would put out his head through the gap, determined to venture forth. But he would retreat, and each time his limbs quavered worse than the soft mud on the banks of his underground home, defeated by the fear of stepping out of the cave, back into the light that he had abandoned. Always his retreat were accompanied by complaints and snarls:

'O no, we can't!' he cried, gasping with distaste. 'It stinks, the nassty air, it chokes uss.'

'It hurts, and I'm tired,' the other thought wept.

'We musst, we must - _gollum_ - we came with the Precious, no one can takes it away. We wants the Precious back!'

For a moment, there was silence. Then he frowned.

'Why am I alone?' asked the other, crying not for the first time. 'We can't go back there, and I can't stay here.'

'Precious doesn't needs _them_!' he reminded the other. The glint in his eyes was hard. 'They gave up on uss!' he spat. 'We didn't leaves them, but they grew jealous of our gift, we came because we has to keep Precious safe!'

The third time he poked his head outside, he was rendered motionless as his eyes swept down from the uncaring stars. He was perplexed anew by the change he saw, for the distant lands had shed the cold pale gleam; mist no longer turned his breath white, for the air itself was growing warm. And the bare tree branches that resembled his gnarled fingers as he strangled his prey, were heavy with things that waved with noise if the wind blew.

He began to remember -- the funny things on the branches were leaves.

As the nights passed, there came to his snuffling nose more and more scents and a feeling that he had long forgotten. Even the cold forbidding crowns of the Misty Mountains yielded to the cycle, and only their very peaks still gleamed as the snows retreated from the lower ranges.

The perplexing scents he tasted told of things strange to him now. Yet, though he disliked what the cloying smells were trying to tell him, still he found himself pushing his nose through the yawning crack, eager to sample more. He waited with impatience for White Face to sleep again, for he chafed with the need to have his eyes give shape to the smells.

Finally, the night of darkness came. The view beyond the cave door was changed, altering itself before his disbelieving eyes. Overwhelmed by things that sat on it, the land seemed darkly green. Everywhere he looked, there was ... growth. Bemused by the teeming life, he sat in wonder.

Amidst the confusing thoughts an idea grew, and he began to shape for himself a plan.

A pale light shone in his eyes as the other voice said: 'I remember, it's spring!' He sniffed again the air, drawing a deep breath. 'Yes, Spring!' the other cried in excitement.

'Yes, yes,' he replied, impatience grating on his annoyance at the fresh smells that lingered in his nose. 'Perhaps we can go Outside, precious. Leaves and grasses, eggs and mouses, there's food enough for us, ss,' he said, eyes gleaming green.

'But I can't do it all at once,' said the other voice, and a note of apprehension was evident. 'There's so much _nothing_ out there.'

'No, we durstn't, we durstn't go out all at once, all together,' said he soothingly. 'Poor precious, it'll hurt, but he musst remember.'

The other voice whimpered.

'Maybe we tries too hard, precious?' he said, eyes flickering green again. '_Gollum_, we doesn't swallow fish whole, not even scrumptiously crunchable bones. Maybe we should try this like we eats, first a bit, then another bit, and then another, until we finishes it up.' Then he poured as much coaxing as he could into his voice: 'Sss, precious, we looks at the Outside first, get used to the nothingness, yes?'

'Yes,' the other thought answered, strengthened by the yearning he felt. 'I'll go, back to the Outside.'

And so, he began to look to the slumbering night of White Face, for it was then that he could thrust his head through the gap and begin to be familiar with the vastness he knew he must venture into if he was to retrieve the Precious.

--- --- ---

It was the White Face's night of slumber again. He knew that the next time it did, it would be one more time than he could measure with all his fingers and toes.

Eyes gleamed as he snuffed at the air, for it brought smells that reminded him of Baggins; scents the thief had brought to the shore of the underground lake -- rich yielding sweetness, the promise of harvest. Autumn was come, cooling the air. His breath raced away in faint mist trails as he cast about, preparing himself.

The last time that White Face slept, he had managed to stand outside the gap for a moment. Upon the ledge he had lingered, not for courage, but for his skinny legs that seemed to have been suddenly cast in stone. Too stunned with the vast nothingness that held him fast, he had struggled to move his feet. Then he looked down and blood rushed through his scrawny neck to reach his overwhelmed mind much too quickly. Countless treetops crowded the mountainside as it sloped downwards into darkness; finally, he tore his eyes away, the cover of the cave his only thought. Step by heavy, reluctant step he slowly put himself into the welcoming dark of the cave mouth. So proud of himself was he that as soon as he recovered his strength, in the shadowed safety of the cave, he capered, a mad dance of skinny happiness.

And this night though he stood shivering even before he began, it was not merely the cold that caused him to shake. For he was learning the truth the smells brought: the cold covered the land again and it would make it impossible to leave for a few more times of White Face's slumber. Already he chafed with the need to recover the Precious. He knew he had to do more before Winter sealed off the cavern mouth again. And so he had resolved -- this night he would leave, this night he would go after his Precious.


	3. Shadows In The Mirk

**NOTE**: All "Elvish Translations" is under "Reference" on the "Incidentals, Credits, Reference and Acknowledgements" page.

--- --- ---

**INTO THE DARK AGAIN  
**by_ Wayfarer  
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)_

**One  
****Shadows In The Mirk**

Aragorn sprinted over the fields, pleased there were no signs of pursuit. Softened by the spring rain, the ground retained faint proof of his passage even as his pace quickened.

His laboured breath told of his exhaustion, his weakened body aching from the efforts of the skirmish by the riverbank days ago: the fever had returned, caused by the re-opening of the gash on his hand. Not for the first time, Aragorn rued his carelessness when he first chanced upon the creature.

Suddenly he stopped, grey eyes alert and watchful; arising out of the North and piercing the morning mist was a sudden flurry of moving specks -- the passage of a flock of birds winging its way South.

Very still he stood, and wrapped within his grey-green cloak, he looked much like a little knoll to the casual roving eyes of the ravens as they flew high overhead. As he clenched his robe tight, he began to worry, for if indeed they were on his trail, it could only mean the diversion of the Beornings had failed. He resisted the temptation to fit arrow to bow as the birds hovered and wheeled, thankful for the scant cover the fir tree provided with its spreading branches.

For a time, the flock milled together, and then began rapidly to descend. Aragorn's dismay grew as the birds drew closer, for they were heading for the very tree he stood under!

He was striving to control his wheezing breath so that it would not give him away when a strong wind bellowed. It surprised even the birds, throwing them off course in a mess of indignant black feathers.

Down from the Mountains of Mist the chill wind had gusted, racing over the Anduin to unsettle the fields he was standing on, rustling the drowsy grasslands and piercing the groves of oaks and birches standing like little eyots in a sea pf green and brown. The trees shook with the force of the wind, dislodging leaves from loose perches and scattering them far and wide. In a mighty rush, the confused capers of the orphaned leaves mingled hues of yellow and brown into the brightening sky, further aiding Aragorn's disguise.

Grateful for the respite, Aragorn endured the bite of the mad gale. At other times he would have scoffed at the wind, when he was hale and free from hurt. But now he stood shivering from the cold while the lingering fever kept his brow moist.

Disarrayed by the strong wind, the shrieking flock reassembled, and resumed its flight southwards once more. Not until the birds disappeared did Aragorn move, and then his long stride bore him quickly to the clump of trees that stood close.

Just as he reached the trees, his keen ears discerned noise masked by the howling gale -- the birds had turned around!

Aragorn strove to remain motionless as the strengthening gust pushed and pulled at him, shuddering even more at the icy touch reaching into his cloak. His brow furrowed as he watched the birds swoop low, and wheel overhead.

Not now, with the Forest only a few strides away! Fevered desperation wracked his ailing body. At that instance, Aragorn yearned more than ever for the comfort of a healer's hands.

The urgency to reach the Elves pressed in on his fevered thoughts, tempting him to abandon caution and try for the Forest with all haste. Ruefully, he wished he had prevailed upon the Beornings to let him keep the horses until they reached the Forest edge; instead he had agreed to their advice, and they had departed during the night to lay more false trails to throw off any pursuers, taking the horses with them.

Aragorn shook his head, his thoughts suddenly clear from the fever. He would not lightly concede defeat while the tide was yet in his favour. The Beornings had counselled well, it was wiser to complete those last miles on foot.

So he waited. At length, the raucous cries of the flock faded away, but still, he waited as he strained, fearing to hear their cunning return. Finally satisfied that the dark flock had truly left, he moved, swiftly and casting his gaze about for a moment more, vanished into the tangled maze of cold damp trunks.

When Aragorn re-appeared, he was not alone. He was preceded by a hunched being that was covered completely by a hooded robe. The creature fussed unceasingly with the garment, complaining in a voice coarse and thick, for he was ill-tempered and easily troubled by light. He swallowed often, and nosily, making a thick unpleasant sound: 'Gollum.'

While he struggled with the robe, Aragorn waited, patient, alert as ever to the fields sprawled before them. Despite the wind, they were heavy with the morning mist. Far and wide the fields spread, scattered with early flowering bushes among new grass. To the east the fields ran, sloping upwards to become a frowning wall, a broad swath of trees squatting on the horizon, trees of such girth that it seemed an outstretched hand would meet the rough grain of their barks.

They were but a few hours away from the Forest, and Aragorn's mind was heavy with thoughts of all that could go awry between the wide expanse lying between them and the trees.

Darkling those trees were, but for a moment a bright line of silver traced the treetop outline, cast by the still unseen sun as she continued her climb into the sky. In that brief instance, it seemed to Aragorn he descried the bright green life of mighty Greenwood the Great. Then he blinked, and the Forest was reclaimed by shadow.

'Mirkwood,' he sighed. 'The safety of a guarded roof is near at hand.'

Gollum was shielding his eyes, pained at having to walk again into the light of the hurtful Yellow Face; barely attending to Aragorn's words, he remained unmoved, and it was not his wont to respond to the Man.

It had ever been thus during the long walk to the Forest, and Aragorn was accustomed to it. Certainly, there was no love lost between the reluctant companions, with the creature travelling against his will, leashed like a dog.

Gollum was lost in the smells on the wind, which seemed strangely familiar. A green thrill lit his eyes, and his stomach responded at some newly recalled taste: 'What's this we smell, precious --_gollum_-- food? But it's not fish, what could be as nice as fissh we wonders?'

Aragorn tugged on the leash. 'Come now, Gollum,' he said. 'The way is clear for the moment. And the faster we gain entrance to the Halls, the quicker we will be rid of each other. Surely that is enticement enough to endure each other's company for one more day?'

Gollum licked his lipless maw, and with grudging effort, got off his haunches, and began to walk, continuing the chatter to himself. 'Halls, precious? What's that? Can it be too silly from sickness? Is it too sick to knows what it says? Will it really go away and leaves us be? Doesn't it wants the precious too? Sss, is it making us go into the trees? _Gollum_ - why? Many terrible Elfses in there,' he muttered with a shudder. Shaking his head, he scolded himself: 'Ach, so many questions! O no, precious, we becomes as silly as the nasty Man.'

Aragorn took no note, for he did not care to delve into the dark thoughts in Gollum's head then -- his mind was bent on reaching the Forest before the sun began westering.

The day progressed, and the sun lightened the sky as only she was able to, flooding the Vales as if it was already Summer. Still, Aragorn basked in the cool rays of the morning, knowing that he would not have the sun to grace the daylight hours for quite a measure of days once they gain the Forest.

The travellers made their way cautiously to the great cluster of brooding trees. Shadows danced in languid parody of their slow progress: the long sedate stride of the Man and the shambling walk of the hunched creature.

An unnatural stillness grew as they climbed toward the forbidding Forest -- the cold wind that had blown mightily across the fields on the eastern bank of the River dwindled into a timid breeze eddying on the edge of the shadow realm. The air became stark, emptied even of the songs of robins and wrens, and the earth seemed barren, for the rabbits that were in abundance elsewhere would not go within a mile of the trees.

When they reached the Forest border, the sun had already reached her peak, and the shadows that trailed them had hidden, tucked under their soles.

Uneasy with the rigid tranquility that seemed to seep through the trees themselves, Aragorn walked along the feet of the trees, searching for the secret entrance -- a gate concealed by the undergrowth that spilt from the Forest's edge. Finally his keen eyes found it. He pushed at it, strangely confident of its condition. And truly, it swung open with neither creak nor protest as one would expect; but then it was only disused, not neglected.

They stood at the threshold, two thick gnarled trucks that stood apart, the sturdy pillars of an imposing archway. The twisting branches met overhead, twined so tight it seemed they formed the roof of a gaping mouth, while the path resembled a lolling tongue, an invitation for the hapless to enter a predator's cunning trap.

Aragorn braced himself, and the travellers plunged into the dark entrance. Instantly they were blinded by the overwhelming dark, and the silence deafened them.

The clammy embrace of the enfolding dark constricted his breath; unable to see the creature, Aragorn suddenly felt vulnerable. Phantoms of light danced as his eyes accustomed themselves reluctantly to the lightless path. Already, his mind was screaming for the colours forfeited at the edge of the Forest. Slowly, as his eyes learnt to see in the heavy gloom, the sense of helplessness retreated.

Guided by a familiar rustling, he located the shapeless lump of Gollum's robe. A pair of pale orbs adorned it, reflecting the odd shard of light that had stolen through the high forbidding eaves, miraculously eluding the grasp of the dark leaves and thick coarse boughs.

Aragorn motioned with exaggerated care for his captive to walk forward: 'Keep to the path.'

He followed, attention on the swishing cloth as he tried valiantly to avoid stepping on the trailing robe of the creature as it swept the ground, dragging dead leaves in its wake. The stiff protest of the leaves' passage sounded thunderous in the stillness of the silence. Furrowing the ground with his shuffling gait, Gollum's heavy steps disturbed the undergrowth, waking the dank mustiness that had lain long in the ground. The raggedness in Aragorn's breath diminished, only to leave his lungs open to the invasion of the sullen earth smells.

They were only on the verge of the woodlands, but already the tall trunks were immensely coarse; age contorted the boles, and some were crumbling in blackened death. Thick lodes of lichen vied with vines of ivy, weighing upon gigantic boughs. The vines reached forth rope-like fingers that trailed thickly to the ground, slowly strangling trees that were yet alive as they twined sinuously around the unresisting trucks.

The ancient trees were of such a height that the Forest rafters seemed to spring away into deepest black, too far to discern in the gloom. Yet the travellers could feel that the interlaced wood limbs were not the only cause for the darkness wrapping them; it seemed they were inside a sick giant, limbs flung up in mute imploration for the sun to shine through and burn away the grim touch of the dark.

Gollum pulled his robe tighter and began to chatter, a little unnerved. Used as he was to seeing in the dark, the trees were disconcerting in their seeming sentience, watching him even as he tried to watch them. He was convinced that they would reach down those thick branches, or whip forth the wicked vines and crush him for daring to step into the Forest. He wanted to wave his fists in defiance, to shout that their wrath was misguided, for he was only a captive this time, with no desire to be in such a place where there was neither water nor fish -- that it was the hateful Man who had forced him into their world. But he dared not, for he could feel overlying their awareness, something he had learnt to fear, the touch of another.

With a nervous tug on the robe, he swallowed and whispered: 'Feels it, precious? It's Him - _gollum_ - all around, all about. He wasn't this near the last time, was he? Sss.'

'Is He looking for me?' asked the other voice.

'We doesn't know, precious,' he said as he turned from side to side, trying to watch the crafty trees. The memories of His power caused Gollum to whimper. 'But we hassn't found it, we can't be caught with it, but we can't be caught without it. Musst be careful, _gollum_,' he whispered furtively, uncomfortable.

Gollum trembled, memories crowding his fear that if He came to know of his presence here, it would be a mercy to be strangled by the vines right there, instead of being delivered into His hands again. But then, he would be well and truly separated from his Precious forever, and that he could not bear. Perplexed by his predicament, Gollum prudently swallowed the false words of bluster that were on his tongue.

Then, with courage he did not possess, he said: 'Scare us and dare us, but we're not easily frightened by silent trees, are we, precious? Sss sss ss.'

'No. But why is He here?' asked the other, fretting over the Presence.

'He wants the Precious, our Precious,' he said. 'Wouldn't stop asking poor Precious questions about nasty hobbits.' He began to rub his wrists amid more mutters: 'Took a long time, such a long time before He let us down from that nassty place, and remove the painful bangles. Ach, the pain! Our poor hands, they hurts so much. He can't catch uss with nothing in our poor hands. Bind us and grind us again, He would. No! Not the Black Hand again, please Master -- _gollum_.'

'O no!' the other cried. 'He would hurt us again.'

A green glint of cunning appeasement crept into his eyes: 'Yes, he would, stretch us and use those nasty biting shackles on us - poor poor Sméagol was crying so loud, wasn't he? Why should we tell Him about the Precious? We wants it, it came to us, our own, our lovely present! Yes, we does, precious! We wants what is ours - my own present, my Precious - _gollum_.'

He paused, almost afraid to say that which had been churning in his mind since the Man captured him.

'Perhaps we can save it, saves it for ourselfs again, once we get rid of the nasty Man,' Gollum whispered. 'Ss, ss, it's useful, nasty Man, it killss His people, _gollum_. Slit them and split them! And hides us from Him. Yess! Better the Man's bright eyes than His Eye, sss. Maybe, maybe we can evens throttle him, precious, when we're away from the nasty treess - _gollum_.'

He chortled as he continued picking his way through the uneven ground, using both hands as much as his feet. With little effort, he followed the faint outline of the meandering path as the Man directed. Gollum felt such delight at the morbid thought of His servants dead, by the Man's hands, that he began to sing. He was careful to keep his voice low, both to avoid provoking the wrath of the hateful Man and drawing the attention of the offensive trees.

Snatches of the unwieldy song shambled their clumsy way to the Ranger's ears, a little rhyme about the trail of His servants that lay dead, left behind on the bank of the fast river they had crossed days ago.

_Oh Hie  
__What a night! Silly scolding fools,  
__Careless Orcses so quickly dead;  
__Cold steel bites and make bloody pools,  
__Bodies slit, split, and rolling heads._

_Oh Hie  
__What a day! Silly howling fools,  
__The maddened Wolfses quickly dead;  
__Swift jaws crunched and make bloody pools,  
__Bodies slashed, ripped and rolling heads._  
...

Dust motes danced, sparse and languid in the increasingly rare shafts of sunlight. They brightened the Forest floor, breaking the monotony of shadows with mottled areas of greenish grey. The mingling light and dark played tricks on Aragorn's vision; spots cavorted across his eyes, making him see moving shadows in the stagnant spaces.

The path led them into the woodland depths, suddenly plunging into deeper gloom. The travellers stopped, blinded yet again, but it was only momentary, for their eyes were learning the art of gathering the Forest pall. The thinnest of sun rays were still able to pass through the dense Forest roof, dancing down to the Forest floor in pale slender beams.

Once they could discern the grey lurking shapes again, they set forth. It became easier after a time, for the Forest had acquired a faint greenish yellow cast -- the travellers were grateful for the traces of colour that varied the unending grey of the shadows.

Drearily, they trudged on, lulled by their own rhythmic gait. Apart from the occasional butterfly of utter black that came fluttering across their path, there was no sign of life. So quiet was it that Aragorn could almost hear the movement of those delicate wings.

After a time, the Ranger frowned, squinting. It seemed the sunspots would never cease troubling him. Restless shadows abounded, shifting though there was no playful draft to disturb the darkness. Perturbed, Aragorn strained to listen even as he strained his eyes, irritated by the creature's sibilant mumbling, thick as beeswax that filled his ears.

'Is it just the fever trying once more to claim my sanity?' he wondered aloud. Of course, there was no answer, neither from the brooding trees nor the blithely croaking creature.

_Was I expecting a reply ... from myself? Ai! It is a certain sign that I am keeping the wrong company for too long! A fine sight it would be -- Aragorn confiding in his best friend, Estel?_ He smiled at the thought, his exhaustion and aches forgotten for the moment. The shadows began to behave again and Aragorn hoped it was only the fever boiling behind his eyes that caused the moving phantoms.

Slowly, the deafening silence began to be suppressed by shy squirrel chatter; the inhabitants of the Forest had resumed their bustling. With time, it grew, swelling to a chorus that pierced the heavy drapery of the air. Aragorn was glad of the noisy animals, for it eased the desolation of the gnarled trees, providing a welcome foil to the harsh voice of the creature.

The black squirrels scampered along the thick boughs, agitated but determined to keep the travellers in sight; Aragorn perceived their defensive posture toward Gollum.

Gollum, too, was discomfited by the squirrels' attention; he grew quiet, and sang no more.

But the squirrels trailed them, scolding ever louder. Aragorn felt sudden concern at the noise they were making. Then he paused, straining at a new sound; his brow knitted with effort. He wished the squirrels would cease for a moment.

A faint smile shaped his lips as he caught some strange birdsong mingled among the cacophony, faint and far away. He dared to hope for a moment as he tried vainly to place the hidden singer.

_There!_ Aragorn felt excitement as glimpses of movement came to his eyes. But, they were only more black squirrels, scampering on the great boughs overhead. Their chatter fused with the heavy stillness, filling his ears much as the musty air filled his lungs. But to his disappointment, the mysterious singer was nowhere in sight. Indeed, it would not be easy -- nonetheless, Aragorn was hopeful of an encounter, for though he knew not the meaning of the faded song, he was sure it was wrought by one of those he sought -- Elves.

A few protracted hours later, or so it seemed to the usually stolid Man, he called for a halt. The sprawling monotone of the shadowy Forest was wearying, intruding upon his careful composure. He had grown heartily tired, and in a fit of fevered temper, wished that he had an arrow strong enough to make a hole in the forbidding roof and be done with the gloom dragging his heart down.

But sense overruled his wild impulse and they simply sat at the feet of an immense oak, or rather Aragorn sat alone, contemplating the wisdom of his decision to walk the hidden path, the mysterious singer still unsighted.

The creature was stooped at the edge of the path, peering into the dimness. The noisome squirrels had ceased their angry admonishments, though a few were still trailing them. And there were things were lurking beyond the path; things that had big eyes, with promises of fat juicy bodies.

'See the shadows, precious? _Gollum_. Remember how they tasted? Bitter, yes, but better than being hungry, no?' He licked his parched lips, recalling the thick taste of those fluids rolling down his throat, so long ago.

The Man had warned him against straying from the path, but Gollum was curious and he was hungry still. The black butterfly he caught at the Forest edge left him thirsty and hungry still. The powdery taste of its wings evoking memories of that first time he had crawled into this Forest; he recalled other things that he had used to quell his gnawing hunger. Finally he admitted to himself the source of the squirrels' begrudged anger. The memory of young flesh caused him to lick his lips again as his stomach began to rumble.

He was still hoping for one of the lurking things to draw nearer when he felt himself being pulled backwards. The hateful Man was tugging on the leash, calling him to move forward. Sighing querulously, he stood up, and with a wistful glance toward the gloom, padded on.

Aragorn was breaking out a loaf filled with a wholesome honey when he noticed the creature's fascination with the gloom. Hackles stiff upon his nape, he became aware of watching eyes. And he was not pleased to catch sight of the yellow, green and red eyes lighting the shadows for they heralded the presence of other less savoury company. It was best to move on, he decided.

The creature had begun his horrendous croaking again, his attempt at subtle caterwauling grating on the Man's ears.

_Cunning and nasty,  
__It grabs us hasty,  
__On that careless night._

_But its loosely grip,  
__We easily slip,  
__Yes, anxious for flight._

_Almost clean away,  
__Then a big dismay,  
__As it hurtss us quite._

_Jump! On us it lands,  
__And we bitess its hand,  
__O, the knots so tight! _

_The cold wicked leash,  
__It itches, burns, gnash,  
__Bah! With elven blight._

On and on he sang as he plodded along, until the Man stopped him.

'Quiet! No more wailing,' the Man whispered sternly, as he peered into the darkness.

But Gollum was growing bold as hunger gnawed at his docility. Petulantly, he started to make up new verses.

_Under Yellow Face,  
__Walking to this place –  
__O, It don't feels right._

_Look, the path is bare,  
__But what does it care,  
__For our hungry plight._

_Ah, we see some eyes –  
__Hoping for mouses,  
__To come cross our sight._

_Yes, if only they bring,  
__Some necks to wring,  
__Ha, for our delight!_

He gurgled the last, choking as the leash went suddenly taut.

'One more mangled note and it shall be all you have for dinner!' said Aragorn.

Insulted by the Man, the creature simpered, hissing his unhappiness. He cast about, stroking his thin fingers across a nearby thicket.

He pulled at a protruding clump, and the air echoed as a dry branch yielded suddenly. Green light glinted in his eyes as he whipped the thicket with it, venting his anger. Then, at a loss as to what to do with the faggot, he hurled it into the darkness with a vengeful '_Gollum_!'

A yelp of pain echoed in the distance. He blinked as the stick came back at him, flying out of the gloom. A dark grotesque shape followed, on it was a set of eyes: eight glinting shells, six small ones surrounding two bulging spheres. A spider! Alarms rang in Gollum's head at the frightening shape. He panicked but could not move.

'_Gollum_.' He swallowed, and suddenly the thrall was broken. Skittering in dismay, he cast about for refuge. Quick as a fieldmouse dashing for the safety of its burrow, he scrambled and hunkered down into the thick roots near at hand, reduced to a limp pile of trembling cloth.

So swift was the spider that the shout of warning was still taking shape in Aragorn's throat when it swung over the path, its mandibles clacking ominously.

'Fool! You'll be hanging by your feet soon!' hissed the spider.

Aragorn's long stride brought him swiftly up behind the spider as it scuttled to where the creature cowered. He gave it a savage kick, overturning it; it squealed as it felt the bite of his sword severing its legs. Then he thrust the blade into the gaping maw of another.

Sword aloft, Aragorn jumped upon a bulbous root as spiders swarmed down the old tree, surrounding the travellers.

On a branch further back sat a spider, noticeable for its uncommon girth, even among its kind. "Beautiful! Be careful not to damage 'em, especially the Big One now, they'll have to hang for a few days but I want the meat fresh for the new ones."

Hissing in evil glee, the spiders attacked.

Aragorn braced himself, and with a shout swung the blade upward in a mighty two-handed stroke into the first spider as it jumped at him. Aragorn staggered a little at the impact, disgusted as jets of sticky fluid splashed onto his chest.

He looked up to find himself isolated amidst an angry sea of dark humps -- the spiders jostled for choice places nearer the tree. There were spiders every way he turned, but with pure fool's luck, Gollum had given him a slight edge in his choice of refuge. It was defendable with its overhanging fold, and with the trunk at his back, there was time yet before he had to look to defense on that flank. And the spiders' tactics aided him, for they heeded their matriarch's command, attacking only singly or in pairs. He had a meagre bit of time yet.

Hoping against reason that the commotion would draw forth the ones he sought, Aragorn engaged them in earnest. With speed greater than the common man could ever hope for, his blade swung through spider bodies, sundering heads from torsos. Still, he was only the one, and the spiders too were quick and they were many. He was hard put to keep them away as his hands became snarled in sticky trails of webbing. He struggled to free himself from the stinging threads even as another spider scuttled up to him. Untangled in time, he threw his knife with the free hand, pinning the monster to the spot, and with a rapid thrust, plunged the sword into another, twisting the blade as it waved its hairy legs, noisily protesting its death.

At the same moment, an arrow flew past, nearly grazing his cheek as he turned. It separated a spider from its silken rope, embedding itself into the gnarled oak trunk behind him. Bereaved of its thread the fallen spider quickly righted itself, and rushed through the undergrowth toward the Man.

Another arrow followed quickly in the wake of the first; one of the monsters was pinned to the trunk as more squeals filled the air. Then Aragorn saw him -- an Elf! Straight and tall, he stood before the Man. Coolly, the Elf sighted another target above Aragorn's head, letting fly another missile with fatal accuracy. He gave a cursory nod to Aragorn even as he bent his bow for another score against the hairy beasts.

Other Elves became visible, moving swiftly through the trees, grim with purpose.

'Diola lle!' Aragorn shouted, and then turning swiftly, he skewered the rapidly approaching spider as it exploded onto the root near him. It was attempting to inject his foot with poison when he stepped out of range and plunged his sword into its abdomen. Th1e ranger was hard put to keep his guard up from attacks even as he tried to protect his charge.

Elves soon joined him, brandishing spears and swords when their quivers were spent. Their swifter strength gave him relief, and he poured his attention in keeping Gollum safe. Yet, even with the blinding speed of the Elves, it seemed to Aragorn that it would take an eternity to cleave through the swarm for the spiders were attacking in earnest, and no longer cared if damage was done to their precious meat.

Suddenly, the path was plunged into stillness again, empty of spiders and Elves. The ground was wet with a dark viscous liquid, bearing silent witness to the affray, scattered with broken spider legs, and twitching bodies.

Winded from the effort, Aragorn stayed on the path, patiently awaiting the Elves' return. He was relieved that the skirmish was over, but also regretful, for he felt a stirring within -- the thrill of precarious odds had wakened the warrior.

--- --- ---

Hidden among the boughs of the great trees, the archers, who had held the travellers in their keen sight for the past hours, watched their progress intently.

They had been searching for the spider colony when the ribald singing of the creature reached their keen ears. Piqued, they had searched for the travellers even as they tried to locate the spider nest. When a scout had found the spiders trailing them, he had called to the others, using his masterful mimicry of birdsong to convey the details. It echoed through the trees, disguised as innocuous bird chatter, decipherable only by one trained in the craft.

And so, the silent Elves had trailed the hunters even as they trailed their prey, biding their time. But the creature's tantrum had forced their hand.

Swiftly their arrows had flown, straight into spider eyes and abdomens, filling the musty air with grating death cries of the hideous beasts. Though the spiders far outnumbered the Elves, their agile leaps and tangling webs offered them no edge over keen arrows and blades, not when wielded by elvish hands. Dead and dying spiders strewed the ground, and a handful of surviving spiders were soon fleeing, their pursuers close behind.

Presently, many Elves appeared and graced the lowest branches of trees by the fringe of the path where the Man stood waiting.

The swaddled creature was still nestled among the great roots where he had taken refuge. He was fidgeting, perpetually shifting under the heavy robe. He gave forth a constant and barely intelligible chatter, a craven monologue that served as release for his pent-up fears. For the single Elf who comprehended the Common Tongue, it seemed the creature was indignant about the loss of some treasure or something he held dear for the word 'precious' was uttered frequently, though his speech was coarse and punctuated with a harsh swallowing sound.

However, intriguing as the creature was, it was the Man that commanded the Elves' attention. He had pushed his hood back, and then he spoke in a clear, deep voice.

'Mae govannen!' he said.

The Elves did not respond; and no wonder, for he was not familiar to any of them.

'I have been long on the road,' he continued, 'on an errand for Mithrandir. It grows ever late and I am expected to bring my ... companion to the Elvenking's halls.'

'The name of Mithrandir is certainly known to us. But what of your own?' called a voice rich in timbre.

The Man turned to the speaker: 'The Dúnadan am I, my name is Aragorn.'

Surprised by the Man's calm at his Elvish audience, in such times when they were fading, relegated to myths and mad imaginings in the minds of Men, they were more interested that he had spoken in their tongue, an eloquence that told of familiarity that had come from long use. It was most unusual -- not many among the other peoples of Middle-earth could even understand their speech.

The Elves waited while their leader considered the situation. He stared at the human, appraising him silently. The Elves of Mirkwood were not an insular folk. He and his brethren knew of Men, though the ties between the two peoples had diminished with the passage of time -- they still maintained tenuous links with some: the Bardings of Dale and the folk of Laketown beyond the Wood's eastern borders, the hulking Beornings who dwelt upon the shores of Anduin and aided the Elves against wargs and goblins from the Hithaeglir, and the quiet woodmen, their allies against the dark creatures of the forest.

But this was certainly not a Beorning, nor man of the Lake, and no Woodman. This Man stood with easy grace. Very tall he was, as tall as an Elf. He bore an air of confidence, as one long accustomed to leadership, despite his obvious exhaustion. His demeanour spoke of nobility though his travel worn raiment proclaimed otherwise. A long wicked knife was held in place by his belt, and a sword with a well-worn hilt hung at his side. On his back was evidence of one used to life in the wilds: a hunting bow, a quiver filled with short arrows, and a slim sleeping mat above his pack. He held a long leash that disappeared inside the creature's robe -- the Elf noted that it was a rope of elven make. An ugly gash glistened on that hand, looking in need of attention. His dark hair was flecked with grey, a shaggy mane that was shorn short above the shoulders. And he wore a beard that was neglected, unkempt. Despite the facial hair and the lines carved by weather, the Elf surmised that it was a face that would be deemed more than fair among mortals, even though it was lent to sternness. But most of all, it was his eyes that held the Elf's attention. They were grey, and the Elf perceived an uncommon brightness in them, and if a light had shone from them, as of starlight, it would not have been surprising. Perhaps he was who he claimed to be, perhaps.

The Elf conferred with another near him. A messenger was dispatched while another trilled a melody, much like the birdsong Aragorn had heard -- the song was soon echoing through the Forest, cresting upon hoary boughs toward the north and the east.

Then the Elf leaped onto the path.

'Aaye Dúnadan, I am Calendring,' he said. With a blunt look, he continued: 'Mae govannen indeed, if you are truly the Lord of the Dúnedain.'

'Aaye,' Aragorn said.

It was not the response the Elf expected. Calendring considered the Man anew as he nodded toward the arrow embedded in the oak trunk, decorated with its wispy trophy of spider webbing.

'Your artistry with the bow is extraordinary,' said the Man. 'I am glad of your steady hand and keen sight in this infinite gloom.'

The Elf smiled, mirthless. 'It is my duty, of no moment,' he said. 'If tribute be due, it is to the long years of hunting spiders that have helped to hone my craft.' His eyes strayed to the trembling pile among the old oak's feet. 'We have yet to thank your companion for drawing the fell creatures forth,' he said.

Aragorn knew Calendring did not speak the words he intended. 'He does have the uncommon gift of attracting precisely the attention I am wishing to avoid,' he said with wry resignation. 'Yet, for this once, I cannot fault him for rousing such overwhelming odds, for it has worked a miracle, for a change. I had feared that birdsong was all the assurance I would have yet that Elves were near. Gladly, my tired vigil shall come to an early end.'

There was such relief in his voice that Calendring wondered at the tale he had to tell.

Aragorn turned to the carnage. 'I wonder that spiders should dare to hunt on the path, here where the Forest is yet shallow,' he said.

'Ai, their numbers have been growing, and dark things such as yonder spiders gain courage in strengthening numbers,' said the Elf. 'We are hard put to keep up with the sudden proliferation! The lair of this colony was a mere two miles from the path. But you may rest easy, for their nest is being destroyed even as we speak. Let us not linger here. There is a little glade where these stinking carcasses will not trouble our sight.'

He wanted patiently as Aragorn tried to get the creature to move. With cajoles and not a few threats, Aragorn succeeded in dislodging the shaken creature from his nook. They followed Calendring while his troop went around retrieving arrows and silencing spiders that were still alive.

They were brought into a grove of silver birches that stood tall, rare in the western regions of Mirkwood. Unlike the hoary twisted trunks that framed the path, they were not dark and brooding. The air too, felt lighter, loosening its stifling hold. Aragorn soon learnt why. They came to a little dell lit by the sun looking down upon the carpeted ground.

A little breeze eddied in the natural air-well, stirring and mixing the stale breath of the Forest depth with the clean air it brought down from the sky. Encircled by the birches, the clearing was awash in sunlight. The bare limbs of the trees swayed in benevolent welcome, an invitation to partake in the feast of light. The sun caressed Aragorn as he stepped forward into the tranquil clearing. He breathed deeply, drawing into his starving lungs air that was not musty and dank.

'Ah yes, a little gem in its own right is it not?' said Calendring. 'You will not be troubled in your rest here.'

Aragorn thanked the master bowman. Then he said: 'The spiders were not this bold when I walked the southern watch with the captain. It must displease him indeed to have the beasts so deep in the realm.' He turned to Calendring and asked: 'I wonder, did he really mount that hideous trophy?'

The Elf looked keenly at Aragorn as he weighed the Man's words. 'Indeed, he did, and for days the curious would surround it, and to hear the captain's own words of the mighty battle. All of Mirkwood was astir with excitement and every warrior made certain to pay a visit to the captain.' Then, memory stirred and Calendring smiled as he said: 'It was heard that Legolas vowed that he would bring down a larger one, even were he to begin his hunt without the Dúnadan!' He laughed, and at the thought of Legolas swearing such a vow in fervour, Aragorn laughed with him. After a moment, Calendring said: 'But though the captain himself enjoyed the attention and the chance to share the great tale with young and old, it was removed soon after, for a difficult choice was presented to the captain: keep the ugly prize or keep the family peace.'

'Ah, needless to say, he chose to disappoint the masses, wisely staying in his lady's favour,' said Aragorn.

'Truly!' cried Calendring. 'And it seems you are who you claim to be, and not an imposter with shady purpose. Let us begin our acquaintance anon. I am honoured, Dúnadan. Mae govannen indeed! But you will understand that I must set a guard for you, and our peace of mind.' He proffered a flask, 'This will quench your thirst, and help restore your spirits somewhat. It is mead, wholesome and strong.'

Aragorn hesitated. 'You are yet on patrol, and I am sure that such a meagre measure of the precious brew will not last even for your watch,' he said. 'Much as I am tempted, I cannot accept it.'

'There is naught else we can offer here at the borders, and it would be poorly regarded if I were to allow you to continue to sit in ill health. Please, take the flask and rest for a bit,' Calendring pressed. 'You will not have long to wait, for already your guide is on his way. Now, you will excuse us for we have to resume the watch. The day grows old, tenna' ento lye omenta.'

'The honour is mine,' said Aragorn. 'Quel fara.'

He stood watching as the Elf vanished, blended into the trees. Were it not for the other leaning casually against an overhanging branch, he would have thought him a ghost of his fevered whimsy.

Aragorn sat down on the path's edge, away from his captive, who had entrenched himself in the crook of another mighty old tree, beginning his incessant complaining anew. Even here in the shadowy world of the Forest, Gollum was not content with the abundant shade.

He sighed as the constantly throbbing welts that laced his arms intruded upon his thoughts. Fifty days it had been since his struggle to contain his captive, but the passage of time did not dull the pain he had been enduring. The potency of the athelas salve he had managed to prepare during the long walk to Mirkwood had faded and served only to provide short relief. The scratches still itched and the burning sensation had not subsided. Worse yet was the numbness that had taken over the hand the creature had bitten. Aragorn was only thankful it was not his sword hand the creature had marked.

He turned his mind from the annoying scratches, more alert to how vulnerable he was, for he was still a stranger to these Elves; they would not hesitate to aim their arrows at his heart if they deemed him a threat in any way. For them, he was as dangerous as the spiders.

In addition to the laconic sentry set on him, Aragorn was aware of the hidden eyes of more watchers in the foliage above. Still, it seemed they were more curious than hostile. After all, visitors to the Forest were rare, and here was one claiming to be Dúnedain, keeping queer company.

Despite the gruesome business of the spider slaughter, Aragorn felt the tranquility the Elves brought with them; a bit of their grace that seemed to make the shadows less sinister and the trees more alive. It relaxed his mind, and Aragorn was relieved that he did not have to be on his guard against his captive, for the first time in many days.

These Elves would not comprehend why Aragorn felt safer under the darkened eaves of Mirkwood, but for him, their appearance signalled the end of a journey that had been overlong. Despite his hurts, he rejoiced at the fulfillment of his old promise. To reward himself, he drew his pipe forth with deliberately slow movements. Soon the scent of pipeweed filled the air. He leaned back to while away the wait, taking care that the smoke blew away from the Elves.

_Seventeen years_, thought Aragorn, amazed at the length of time that had passed. He was filled with wonder at the realization, the precious years of his life that he had poured into looking for the creature.

'_Gollum_,' said the creature again.

Unbidden, Aragorn's hand strayed to his neck. The signs there had faded, but he would forever remember the circumstances of their first meeting. Meanwhile, lulled by the comfort of his pipe, his long legs outstretched, he turned his mind to stirring memories of days long distant. His thoughts flitted swiftly through the years and settled upon the meeting where it all began.


	4. In Bree LongAgo, A Meeting Held In Haste

**NOTE**: All "Elvish Translations" is under "Reference" on the "Incidentals, Credits, Reference and Acknowledgements" page.

--- --- ---

**INTO THE DARK AGAIN  
**by_ Wayfarer  
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)_

**Two  
****In Bree Long Ago, A Meeting Held In Haste**

'Ranger! Mr. Strider! Ah, there you are, my good man.' Despite the familiar address, the ample landlord's discomfort was obvious. Unconsciously, he wrung out the cloth with which he had wiped the bar, while the object of his remarks turned away from the corner table and came over.

Smoke filled the common room of the Prancing Pony. A mingling of weed, beer and sweat threaded through the wafting smells of fresh bread and seasoned meats, mounting an odorous assault on all who entered. And the room was crowded, bustling with an endless flow of food and ale. There were men and hobbits, Bree-landers in close camaraderie, sharing tables, beer and yarns in harmony that was not to be had elsewhere. In the corner where some Outsiders huddled with the remains of an extravagant spread before them, a commotion was brewing: Bree-folk surrounded them, eager for news and strange tales from far away. Such good custom graced the inn that there was barely room for latecomers and the harried serving-men had had no opportunity to rest for the past three hours.

Full of bodies and awkward elbows as it was, any who had not staked a place at the busy bar faced a tough challenge to procure a tankard through the crush. Yet, the Breelanders who jostled there obliged with a clear place for the approaching figure. The interruption to their merriment did not dampen the drinkers' spirits. Rather, it was the sheer presence of the man, one of the many Rangers who stopped frequently at the inn. He was robed in a heavy dark green cloak, threadbare in places, and his face was hidden in the shadows of the garment's hood. Grips on tankards tightened as the merrymakers perceived the ominous aura emanating from him. It did not help that his reputation as 'One of them wandering folk' had preceded him.

The man did not pull his hood back, but his gaze was no less intense, seeming to blaze forth from far within the depths of the cowled robe. Barliman glanced nervously at the Ranger as he casually placed a hand on the bar, a fine silver ring adorning one of the long fingers, and suddenly the landlord felt very small.

'Mr. Butterbur?' he asked, bending low to meet the short landlord in the eye.

Barliman's throat went dry, and he wondered why it was so difficult to talk to him -- it had been easy enough to strike up conversation when serving the stranger. Suddenly he wished he had not agreed to the old man's request.

'Is something amiss?' queried Aragorn.

'Of -- of course not, Mr. Strider, take no offence!' replied the landlord. Suddenly gaining courage, he rambled on: 'Why, in fact, I count you among my best customers, though I am much surprised to see you back again so soon.' Barliman stopped as he realized what he had said. Then he quickly rambled on , hoping to cover his embarrassment: 'I may be kept busy with serving but that does not mean I forget about the accounts. Yes, I do appreciate your promptness in paying for the heartfelt services of my humble inn!' He glanced about the crowded room, unable as he was to hold the other's gaze.

The raucous chatter around the bar was suddenly subdued, some of the Bree-folk lowering their voices in guilty mumbling, reminded of their own unpaid bills.

'Then, pray tell, Mr. Butterbur, why was I hailed if not in pursuit of some unknown debt?'

Barliman felt sure he detected a note of amusement, but the Ranger's question reminded him of his task.

'Oh! Yes, someone is looking for you. Been here for, let's see, yes, eleven days now, he has. He has just gone out and asked that you wait for him here.'

'Oh? And what does he look like, this man?' asked the Ranger.

'Well, let's see. I think there is no other word to describe him than grey. Yes, strangely, everything about him is grey. Grey robes, grey beard, and a tall hat. Oh, that was blue though.' He laughed as he scrubbed the bar top, 'I remember how it used to get caught by the threshold, being tall himself and all. And he would curse as he ducked back out to retrieve the fallen hat. Even now, he would forget this old inn has low doorways!'

'I suppose he left a name?' returned the Ranger.

'Yes, yes! In a minute -- oh, pardon me there,' said Butterbur. 'Now where was I? Ah yes, this man -- an old one, name of Gandalf. I happen to know him as a friend in fact, though how that came about -- well, I'm a busy man, and I'm sure you will want your ale and food instead of my ramblings.' He paused, and the other looked hard at him.

'Was I saying too much? Goodness, how can I keep you from your rest? Tiring day? I suppose so, you rangers do walk a lot I must say,' he paused with a smile. After a quick glance at the clock, he said: 'Well, dinner for you I presume? I recommend the venison, not only for the magic the old lady has done on it but it's fresh in today! But then, we always serve the freshest and the best, of course.'

The tall man listened with forbearance, considerately waiting for the flood of words to slow to a trickle before asking, 'Will that be all? Mr. Butterbur?'

A little surprised by the Ranger's polite response, Barliman took a moment before he could offer the Pony's famous brew. 'Oh, and some ale to whet your appetite while you wait?'

'Thank you, I am much obliged.' Aragorn smiled his thanks, looking all the more menacing with teeth gleaming from the depths of the hood.

Barliman smiled in return, a little apprehensively. The Ranger looked no less a rascal to the landlord. The owner of the Prancing Pony, affectionately known among the regular patrons as Barley, wished the secretive Strider and his kind did not visit Bree so often. No doubt they were good custom, always prompt with payment, well-mannered in fact, for Barliman could not recall an instance where a fight was started by one of them. In truth, they kept to themselves exclusively, though upon request, they always obliged with news from the Outside and fantastical tales that, to his mind, trod too far on the wrong side of believable. But, they felt out of place to him, and they did put the other customers ill-at-ease whenever they appeared; often the flow of beer would halt as the men lost interest in their drinks. Barliman was thankful that once they settled down at their chosen tables, the Rangers seemed to melt into the background, so unobtrusive that the merry-making would resume.

The landlord shrugged off his distaste. Rangers or otherwise, it was honest money he got from them and to a busy man who lived by his own effort, that was all that mattered. He returned to the chores at hand, after watching with secret amusement as the Ranger sauntered to the table, bodies parting before him as men pressed back at his approach and moved out of his way instinctively -- an amazing feat in the crowded room.

--- --- ---

Aragorn sat by the fire, warming his hands, his long legs tucked under the stool. The fascinating flames danced, sinuous, shifting.

Behind him, an old man, long beard and hair streaked in grey and white, stood near the window, a smoking pipe in hand while his hat sat on the bed. Despite the semblance of age, he appeared otherwise hale and robust.

The Ranger waited for the wizard to speak. And true to form, it was not of the matters that had drawn him to Bree.

'Barliman should be commended for the fine fare he serves,' Gandalf said, Elvish rolling off his tongue silken smooth.

'Indeed,' Aragorn agreed. 'Yet, I am certain that it is not enough reason to drive anyone to travel so far north. Neither is the prospect of supping on the Pony's fare with a disreputable Ranger!'

They laughed, at ease in the intimacy and isolation of the room, away from prying eyes.

'Mae govannen, Mithrandir,' said Aragorn. 'Long has it been since we sat together thus.'

'Mae govannen!' replied the wizard. 'My apologies for calling you hither. I am relieved that you have spared my bones the agony of the frozen wastes at Fornost! But come now, before we embark on the reason for your summons, tell me how you have fared these past years. News travels far, and my ears have heard whispered accounts of forays into unknown lands, with solitude your sole companion. I hear of great deeds even now cast into legend.'

'Ah, news quickly turns into tales, does it not?' Aragorn laughed. 'The modest virtues that gave them birth grow beyond recognition.'

'Come come, my friend!' said Gandalf. 'Where is your love of storytelling? Surely you would not begrudge this old vagabond thin slivers of your adventures, that I might add to my store of tales to earn my keep at Imladris?'

'Do you not then claim to yourself the business of colourful yarns?'

Gandalf's eyes twinkled in amusement. 'I am chastened before the Lord Ranger! Pray forgive an old man hungry for tales that only the Dúnedain can tell.'

Though Aragorn frowned, there was a merry gleam in his eyes as he replied: 'Very well then! It seems I will get no peace until I have satisfied your hunger.'

And so they began to reminisce, renewing the bonds of friendship, long held in abeyance over time and distance, but as strong as ever they had been. After some time a silence fell and then Aragorn, leaning suddenly forward, said quietly: 'Well? Are you going to tell me why you asked me here?'

'Well now? Worthy deeds indeed, my dear friend,' smiled Gandalf. 'And now, I suppose you are burning with curiosity, and I see concern in your face.'

'I know you too well to believe for a moment that you have travelled this far merely to pass the time of day!' said Aragorn. 'What is it, Mithrandir? Now that we have eaten more than our fill and filled our pipes, must you still put off disclosing your true business here?'

The old man pulled up another chair to the other side of the fire, studying the Man.

'You are in pensive mood, Aragorn.'

'Good food and a fine tankard will do that sometimes,' said Aragorn wryly.

'Well then.' Gandalf searched Aragorn's face in earnest. Then he spoke, in a low voice: 'The Enemy is moving again.'

The Ranger felt relieved, 'Is that all? Forgive my bluntness, but it has been plain to see. Things are astir, and have been so for years now. Yes, even here in the desolation of the North. Increasingly, the reports point to a massing of the Enemy's forces. There has been unusual movement of birds and beasts, ranging around the Old Forest, and all but children are aware it bodes ill. Surely that is not the whole reason for you to seek my company? I have scarcely left Breeland, and Butterbur has barely time to make his peace with my last appearance before I was summoned by your message.'

'No. Despite the drink and my seeming age, I still keep my wits about me,' the wizard responded mildly. 'Yes, it is grievous indeed that I should purpose to test Barliman's sanity so.' He stood up, and began to pace as he spoke. 'I mean that he is moving faster. I have underestimated his ability and will in the matter. Perhaps it is my secret desire for peace that clouds my judgment. I fear that events are beginning to move at a pace, as of a storm gathering speed; I worry they may soon be beyond our grasp.' Aragorn wondered what it was that troubled Gandalf for it seemed that he was much too wary in his words. In turn Gandalf considered him as he returned his attention to the fire. 'I am late of the Shire, Aragorn. While I lingered there, certain matters were given much pause for thought and there is much I have had to ponder --'

Aragorn turned to the wizard, a quizzical brow arched, the air full of questions he did not ask. An odd look of hope and yet of apprehension flared in his eyes.

'What do you wish of the Dúnedain, Mithrandir?' he asked.

Gandalf debated the wisdom of letting the Ranger know everything at once. 'You have questions, and rightly so --'

There was a knock at the door.

'Ah, that must be Nob, come in the nick of time with the ale,' said the wizard with a wink.

He strode to the door, switching to Westron, 'Enter, my fine friend!'

With a flourish, he held the door wide open as a laden tray that seemed to have sprouted legs advanced in stately fashion into the room. Aragorn was pleased to note that on it sat two frothing jugs of the Pony's finest brew.

'Do you require help?' asked Gandalf of the tray.

'No, Mr. Gandalf, Sir,' a flustered voice answered. ''Tis just a small tray, I'll set it down fine. Not a drop will spill from the jugs.'

'Well then! Be so kind as to set this marvellous spread on the sideboard,' said Gandalf with a smile. 'That's a good lad.'

True to his word, the hobbit slid the groaning tray onto the cupboard with neither spillage nor waste. He stood beaming with pride as Gandalf rummaged for coins.

Consternation drowned the smile on his face when he saw the familiar shape of the Ranger by the hearth. Despite the Wizard's expectant look, the serving man did not depart. He shifted from foot to foot, 'Is there anything else we can do for you, Sir?'

Nob, it seemed, was concerned about Aragorn's presence in Gandalf's room, and was trying to find a reason to linger. But Gandalf had other intentions. He steered the hapless serving man toward the door.

'Well, Nob, it must be said that there's never a finer time for a grand entrance, nor an exit. Yes, you go now, that's a good lad. Nonsense, you're a sprig of youth in these eyes. No, no, truly, I require nothing else for the moment.'

Giving him a final shove, Gandalf smiled as he shut the door, 'Now I bid you good night!'

Nob stared in wide-eyed amazement, for he was not afforded the opportunity to utter a word, nor put in a grunt of protest edgewise at the Wizard's curt manner.

He brightened as the door opened again.

'Come not to disturb us unless you hear the bell. You and Barley both.'

The low tone in Gandalf's voice caused Nob to shake. It was heavy with purpose, so unlike the usually light-hearted old man. Nob had a sudden vision of skin boiling off his bones amid flaming wrath. But he was a true Breelander and so struggled with his inherent distrust of Rangers, the need to inform Butterbur and the onus Gandalf laid on him. Then he sighed -- for it was truly the old man's own business whoever he chose to consort with after all -- and went bustling off to the common room.

Aragorn smiled to himself, for he had never seen anyone got rid of so effectively, and returned his attention to the fire.

Gandalf inspected the ale, adding a dash from an exquisite little flask.

'Right, that takes care of that,' he murmured in satisfaction. Then he reverted to the Elvish they were conversing in: 'Very well, Aragorn, this is no time for reticence, so I shall share all that I know. It begins with an account that is long in the telling. Do you remember the "Tale of Riddles"?'

'The story of the riddling game between a hobbit and a most disagreeable little creature of indeterminate race?' Aragorn nodded and said: 'It was the first tale Bilbo told me upon your return from Erebor, and I would have gladly forgone sleep to hear more.'

Gandalf sighed at the memories. 'Surely you understand -- I was being held responsible for the well-being of a child. A wizard I may be, but there is neither spell nor talisman in the world that would afford adequate protection if you were kept from bed!' He smiled and said drily: 'I must say, it was most gratifying to return to Imladris to find that we had earned your belief in the stories we left you with, though I would not have thought to be vouched for by stone statues.

'But I digress; it was more than just a riddling game, that I know for certain now. We shall be at it the whole night anyway, so here is the rest of the tale.' Gandalf paced as he spoke, shaping a tale that aroused a well of long hidden dread in the Dúnadan's mind, while at the same time a sudden spark of passion ignited his heart so that it almost burned him.

'So I fear that Isildur's Bane may yet abide in Middle-earth.' Gandalf finished.

Throughout the tale, Aragorn had been silent. When the wizard first named the Bane, he felt as if he was falling away from the fire, down into an endless pit. Emotions raged, and he strove to listen through the clash of hopes and fears.

'The Bane of my line --' Now that the tale has ended, he felt rather that the bottom of that pit had rushed up much too quickly to meet him. His throat constricted, and he stared at the wizard, trying to gather his scattering thoughts.

'Was it not lost in the vastness of the sea, long ago? Saruman The White -- the Council had presumed so!'

Gandalf shook his grey head: 'Presumptions, as you yourself say. I too hope that it is resting on the bottom of the sea, where it can wreak no further mischief upon the tired land. Yet, we know it is inevitable that such shall come to pass. Even as the Elder Race fade and the Younger arise, this will be another trial along the road.' Then, the wizard seemed to grow straighter and taller, his presence pressing against the confines of the room. 'But ere that comes to pass -- a reckoning of wills, the Sword reforged and a Line restored, and then,' Gandalf paused to draw breath, suddenly reassuming the familiar aspect of a bent old man. There was an abiding sadness as he continued, 'the end of an Age.'

Aragorn looked away, his hands seeking the comforting grip of the knife yet on his belt. Gandalf knew he was feeling the hilt of another blade, lying silent and waiting to be rekindled.

'The time draws nigh, Aragorn,' he said. 'I do not think it a mere whimsy to say the final dance shall begin anon. When and where -- well, not even the Wise can say for certain. But history has a habit of repeating itself.' When Aragorn turned to look at him, Gandalf continued: 'Whether it be by mischief or virtue, the end of things is glimpsed as through a tantalizing mist that cannot be parted, even for the Wise. Surety is what I crave desperately, for I have not the confidence to vouch for what I know. I need proof, and I need you, Aragorn.'

His pale face drawn, Aragorn stood up, reaching for the ale.

'Ai, with the one stroke you kindle dread and hope both,' he whispered as he raised a tankard to his parched lips. Eyes widened, he lowered it. There seemed to be an unusual sparkle to the ale. 'Miruvor? My thanks, Mithrandir.'

He toasted the Wizard and drank his fill, but did not return to the fireplace. Instead he stared through the dusty window panes, where the revelry in the Pony had spilled onto the midnight streets, already dim while the road lamps sputtered, dying from spent fuel.

The cloistered Bree-folk were blissfully unaware that here was a Ranger, the Dúnadan, speaking to a wizard about matters that might yet work irrevocable changes on their uncomplicated world.

'So, the Doom of Isildur will rule us yet.' Aragorn recalled the words that Elrond gifted to him soon after his twentieth year: '_A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin.1_' Those were the words that had driven Aragorn's life. At that moment he felt a strange peace as his mind caught up with the turmoil of his heart. Suddenly clear to him now, as the calming of stormy seas, he grasped at the choice before him.

Watching Aragorn's face, Gandalf wondered if he was right after all to disclose so much in such blunt fashion. Yet, there was no avoiding what the fates mete out, especially to one such as he.

Reconciled then, Aragorn returned to his seat.

'So be it!' He spoke quietly, pushing all doubt into a corner of his heart that it may leave him free to do what he must.

The wizard relaxed, relieved when he saw the determination glistening in the Dúnadan's eyes. Plagued by doubt and hesitation he may be, but he would not break, not easily, for he was made of sterner stuff than the common man. Throughout his long life, Aragorn had driven himself, seeking the height of expectation that had been laid upon his shoulders. His face was lined with care and his hair was flecked with grey, but for one of his race he was considered young and yet in his prime and strength. Tireless, he had never allowed himself a moment of idleness and had never turned aside from danger.

'Well, what do you wish of me?'

'Your eyes and skills, the strength of the Dúnedain, nothing and everything.' Gandalf sighed again, and pulled up a chair. The fiery colours of the warm flames masked the grim light in his face. 'Gollum -- it began with him. And I must procure an interview with him,' said Gandalf. 'He has eluded me before. And I have left it alone for far too long. Would that I had persisted in the chase after the Elves had relinquished the hunt!

'But come, there is no purpose, or as Barley would likely say, no profit at all in dwelling on past misdeeds. If Gollum yet lives, and I have no doubt that he does, I know he will make for the Shire again, drawn as a moth to the lamp. To one such as he, the infernal hatred he nurtures will see to that. I hope I can intercept him before he casts himself into the flame. With what I now know, I believe that it is the Shire itself teetering on the brink of disaster. The least that can be done is to set a stronger guard around the hobbits.'

'It shall be done,' said Aragorn. 'To think that the fate of Middle-earth should lie on those small shoulders! Bilbo is certainly an amazing creature. Adventures? His reputation in Hobbiton is not far from what they think of Rangers here then.' He shook his head. 'But for the small folk to be entangled in matters not entirely of their doing is a terrible Doom for a people who walk heedless of the world beyond their borders. And it is scarcely believable, that the Ring-holder had been a shadow haunting the Hithaeglir, and the Ring near at hand, hitherto unknown even to its Master for centuries.' Aragorn sat thinking, absentmindedly preparing his pipe. 'A thought, Mithrandir. We shall certainly strengthen the watch, but as you say, time is of the essence. There is more that we can do and if you will heed my counsel, my sword and my skills are yours to command.

'It grows late, and I do not mean the night. Should we be content with lying in wait for the creature? Do we wait, even if it takes a hundred years? We would be as trolls caught in the sun's light, with no chance for reparation!' Aragorn leaned forward in earnest, his grey eyes kindled with a rare flame, purpose lighting his stern face. 'The trap shall be set, but we shall do more than wait for it to spring. The Enemy is moving, you say. So then shall we, for we may yet reap better harvest if we went after the creature.'

'Yes,' said Gandalf, stroking his beard. 'That is sound advice indeed, and I shall be glad of your skills in this.'

'Good, we shall cast a net both wide and far. But this is a trail that may yet lead us into the Black Land – a plan is needed.'

Gandalf sighed: 'And so it shall begin again. But no more this night --'

The vigorous calls of a distant cockerel were heralding an early dawn, even as the first light of day wended its way into the sky, lighting the crisp autumn air with a fiery glow. 'Or should I say morning. This weary old man needs rest now. A bed before I fall crashing to the ground!'

'Very well, old friend.' Aragorn stood up. 'I shall leave to your rest, quel esta.'

Sleep, despite the long night, was beyond Aragorn, and he desired to begin preparations at once. He crossed the hallway, and descended the narrow stairs with ease; the unlit passage troubled him little for he had traversed it many times. It was only when he reached the main doorway that he hesitated, undecided between the door that led to the outside and the one on his right. Through it the muffled din of the Pony's morning labour could be heard.

A long day was before him, and he knew heavy thoughts required much sustenance. Reaching forth, he pushed at the door, and smiled as the smell of new-baked loaves greeted him. He paused, breathing the refreshing fragrance before entering the common room. Then he stopped beside the bar and waited to be served.

It was early yet, and the candles in the common room were almost spent; the flickering flames harboured shadows that sidled in and out of every nook and cranny. In the waning light, Barliman and his serving men, busy laying the breakfast spread, were as wraiths wandering under a dim sickle moon.

Aragorn frowned, for he was in a grim humour indeed, that he would imagine such dark things within the Pony's confines when the day was so young yet.

Unaware that a Ranger stood at the threshold, those who were breaking their fast within were enjoying the generous helpings, at ease as murmurs of conversation filled the air, accompanied by the rhythmic clash of forks and knives on plates.

The irony of the noisy bustle was not lost on Aragorn. Ever so slighty, he shook his head and continued to wait patiently as Barliman approached the bar.

With the tray deposited at the bar, the landlord turned, and a frown creased his forehead. He wondered that he had not noticed the Ranger before, and how long he had been standing there, watching with that disconcerting calm. He took a deep breath, and tried to greet the man in a manner he hoped would be unobtrusive to the custom.

'Morning, Mr. Strider, breakfast?' said Barliman. Instantly, the room was hushed. Barliman might as well have announced the Ranger with a bugle call.

Aragorn nodded. The landlord, keen to restore the mood, swiftly led the way to the Ranger's favoured table.

'There's fresh bread or porridge if you prefer?' Barliman asked as he took out a cloth. 'We've got some lovely fruit and honey that will go well with the porridge but bread will be a good complement to fresh eggs and newly smoked bacon.' He finished wiping the table. 'Which will it be?'

'Bread then,' came the curt reply.

'Long night was it?' Barliman continued. 'How about some herb-tea to wake the tired mind up? I'll brew it strong.'

Aragorn raised his head, an unreadable look on his face. It was the most the landlord had ever said to him, of his own will. 'Yes, thank you,' he said.

Under that gaze, Barliman hesitated, though he desired to say more. 'There's cider too, newly passed from late apples,' he offered instead.

In return he got another nod from the impassive Ranger. Familiar with the close nature of these men, Barliman knew better than to attempt to engage this particular one in further conversation; though he was afire with curiosity at Gandalf's anxiety to meet with him. The news of the past night lied heavy, and the sight of the generous breakfast did not lift his appetite; Aragorn barely tasted the food as he ate. Yet, he knew better than to refuse a chance for a warm meal.

His table soon cleared, Aragorn began to mull over Gandalf's words. Alone with his thoughts, he opened his tobacco pouch, and out fell a neat square packet, a gift from Gandalf. On it were stamped these words:

'**_HORNBLOWER_**  
_Finest of Longbottom Leaf'_

Even tightly packed as the pipeweed was, its legendary pungency tempted Aragorn. He fingered the packet, feeling the smoothness of the waxed paper.

'Fine indeed,' he said. 'I shall have to keep it against this journey's need.' With a touch of regret, he returned it to the pouch, and drew forth another open packet, the weed's lesser quality betrayed by the feeble smell.

Bilbo -- his riddle game had seemed like a light-hearted tale compared to his account of the Battle of Five Armies, bred of violence, greed and vengeance. Yet the true significance of it had only began to surface in the wake of the previous night. It was strange that beside it, a tumultuous event such as the Battle would pale, dwindled into a petty squabble.

A mere span of distance would not daunt a Dúnadan, but time stood between that event and the hunt he purposed. Sixty years was a very long gap to close, and yet Aragorn did not think it a hopeless pursuit for he perceived a detail that was to their advantage -- the Wood-elves had helped Gandalf to track the creature. Known for their woodcraft, they would be able to provide information that would be of aid to the hunt. Still, there was much to see to.

As Butterbur sat newly arrived guests at the last available table and began to fret about the custom he would have to turn away, the empty table in the corner caught Barliman's eye. He frowned again, for there was no evidence of the Ranger, save the cold heap of pipeweed ash on the table. He wondered, not for the first time, how those wanderers were able to come and go with such silence.

--- --- ---

The door was brought to softly, and Aragorn straightened his back as he stepped away from the low threshold. The sun had won free of the horizon, but the heavy autumn mists lingered, veiling the street -- Bree-hill shielded the village from the sun's cold rays.

The hill's shadow would keep the village grey and cheerless in its brooding grasp until late morning. It suited Aragorn well, for it kept the villagers indoors, and despite the morning bustle, the street was already empty, quiet save for faint echoes of coughing fits and protests by children unwilling to rise from beds. Aragorn felt thankful that he was spared the curious covert stares as he sought the South-gate.

Still, his passage did not go unnoticed: as he neared the gate, he heard a flurry of fast light steps that grew loud, then halted before they began again, growing soft as they went away from him; and then the sound of a door shut in haste. It was then that Aragorn reflected that he should have been more prudent in choosing a way other than the open Road. It was too late to retrace his steps and so he continued, drawing nigh a house hidden by tall hedges that looked in need of a good pruning.

From within, a young voice on the verge of manhood was chanting, and as he neared the words rang clear:

_There he goes, stick-at-naught Strider  
__Another good-for-naught ranger  
__Stealing about in the wee-hours  
__Last thing he wants is picking flowers—_  
. . .

Aragorn ignored the childish taunt, for the Ferny household had gained a name among the Dúnedain for its hostility, and the boy was merely showing signs of being his father's son. Aragorn only hoped the chanting had not drawn attention to his going.

Swiftly, he moved past the house, and silence enveloped him once more, for that was the last house that lined the Road as it curved to the left, toward the South-gate and the rising sun. The light slanted onto the yellowing grass, marking a clear border between the dawn and the shade of the hill's shadow. Soon he descried the red rays of dawn, mingled in frail tendrils of mist rising above the hulking shade of Bree-hill.

Beyond the gate, Aragorn followed the Road as it led him South. But he did not intend to let it lead him far; soon he stopped and turned to a faint track veering to the North.

There the mist laid dense, held down by the interlacing clutch of tall grass. The cold autumn air tasted pure and its chill touch in his lungs lightened the burden that had borne down upon him. Ghostly shapes of balding trees seem to shift as the sunlight stirred in the clinging mists, and mounds loomed, resembling stone trolls laying in wait, now nigh, now far, all ready to pounce on the unwary. Yet, the eerie fog daunted him not, for Aragorn was familiar with the lay of the land, and he relied on ears as keen as his eyes for warning of danger unseen. Toward Chetwood he began, his long stride unhurried as he enjoyed the peace of the quiet woodlands.

The tall grass rustled as he passed, the sounds muffled by the blanketing mist, while his robe and boots began to feel heavy, for they were dampened by cloying dewdrops. He held the cloak close that it would not trail and leave signs for others to follow. His pace slowed as the earth began to soften. He would not gain Chetwood before nightfall; but neither the wood nor the little village of Archet was his destination.

The sound of familiar steps came near behind him, seeming in a frantic rush, yet trying at the same time for stealth. It was the Ferny boy and he had done remarkably well to keep apace. Aragorn smiled, for it seemed the boy had learned from his last attempt to trail a Ranger, and had prepared himself by training his body and studying the concealed pathways. But, he had not learnt the lesson well enough, for he still did not admit that Rangers were more than his match. Aragorn quickened his pace, changing from path to path, leading the boy around in circles. When he knew the boy had lost his tracks amid the concealing mists, he resumed his journey. After a half hour, he turned off into a wooded vale.

Concealed within was a clearing. There was a banked fire at the feet of a great elm tree, the remains of a hastily forsaken campsite. The smoke was still rising into overhanging branches.

'I was wondering if the Lord of the Dunedain might have lost his way,' came a voice, behind and to the right of Aragorn.

He turned to see the shadows coalesce into a tall man, garbed in gear similar to his.

'I was delayed,' Aragorn said, his tone mild.

'You were followed?' the man said, disapproval plain in his voice. 'The boy?'

Aragorn nodded. 'He will learn his lesson while we speak.'

'I hope he learns it well this time,' said the other.

'I will see to it,' Aragorn promised.

'What does Mithrandir want?' said the man then. He came forward, and looked closely as Aragorn stood before him. 'You are not returning to Fornost.'

His kinsman smiled: 'None knows me as well as you, Halbarad.'

Halbarad grunted; whether in understanding or disapproval, it was not certain.

He returned to the fire. 'This will be a lengthy council then,' he said. 'There is no reason to shiver while we speak, is there?'

'None at all,' Aragorn agreed.

Silence fell upon the clearing once more while Halbarad coaxed the fire ablaze.

'Well?' Halbarad asked as his hands began to warm again.

Aragorn considered him for a moment. He said: 'What think you of the Shire's watch?'

'The Shire?' Halbarad repeated, as a frown formed on his brow. 'What am I to think? It is part of our care and we watch over it as well as we can, though I would that more was not needed for my peace of mind. But why do you ask?'

Aragorn studied the fire. At length he said: 'There are things afoot -- I would double the watch.'

'There are always things afoot!' retorted Halbarad. 'Dangers press in on the periannath, and the perimeter shrinks, faster than ever with the Old Forest growing more fey with each passing day. They are like the fish of a lake in drought, unaware of their danger, until it is perhaps too late. But we are a dwindling folk -- it is already with much sacrifice that we toil at the watch. Winter comes and with it the wolves from the Waste.' He paused, gathering some wayward thought. Presently, he continued and there was a note of pain in his voice. 'The last one was -- it was difficult enough to endure, and now you purpose to thin the ranks in the Angle despite the coming snow?' he asked. Another moment more he took to compose himself, then he rasped: 'For I do not see how else we can strengthen the Shire's watch; Aragorn, my lord, we need to look to our own!'

'What, then, would you?' Aragorn returned.

Halbarad's eyes flashed, but he said nothing. After a moment he avoided his kinsman's gaze; not many could long endure it and he had no desire to challenge his captain. Already, he regretted the outburst.

'Halbarad, listen to me,' Aragorn said.

Reluctantly, the Ranger met his lord's eyes, and was a little startled by the gleam of earnest purpose he saw in them.

'Let it go,' said Aragorn gently. 'I, too, am learning to endure the grief, for the loss of my people is my loss.' He paused, as his grey eyes darkened at some distant memory. When he resumed, his voice had changed: 'Leastways, I hold the grief as my own but I do not dwell overmuch on matters beyond repair. While the land lies quiet, I was content to let you soothe your sorrow as you will. But now the Lord of the Dunedain requires the strength of his second-in-command; Halbarad, I can wait on you no longer.'

Halbarad looked at his kinsman. Grave of demeanor Aragorn was, but it was seldom that he spoke so sternly nor called attention to his birthright. It was not Strider the ranger who spoke, but Aragorn, son of Arathorn: Isildur's Heir.

With sudden insight, Halbarad recalled his words: _'Things are afoot_.'

_Afoot indeed if they would cause such concern from the Lord of the Dunedain_, thought Halbarad. The Ranger was mindful of his own painful reticence during the past years. The time for his own grief was past, his lord had need of him. He looked up at Aragorn. 'You do not have to wait any longer, my lord,' he said solemnly.

'Thank you,' Aragorn said. Well aware of what it cost his kinsman to utter those words, he knew it had been a cruel way to remind Halbarad of his duty, but he could ill afford the time to prepare his steward nor was it his wont to play at subtlety.

Meanwhile, he sat himself on the other side of the fire. He waited for the questions he knew would come once Halbarad had ordered his thoughts, for he understood it was simply the frustration his kinsman felt that had caused his outburst.

'Can it not wait on Spring?' asked Halbarad.

Aragorn said nothing for it was Halbarad's wont to reason aloud.

'Nay, it would not have been asked if it could wait,' Halbarad mused. 'Danger draws nigh, and it quickens, the activity in the Old Forest is evidence enough.'

'There is more,' said Aragorn then. 'Mithrandir expects one called Gollum to try for the Shire. What he is, I cannot tell you, for Mithrandir himself is not certain. Yet, what little is known of him is enough to help distinguish him: he is of hobbit stature, with a great love of water, but unlike hobbits, he seems afraid of light and is a stealthy hunter. He climbs trees well and has shown a great liking for flesh and has no qualms snatching children from their cradles. He is no easy quarry; already he has eluded the Elves of Mirkwood.'

Halbarad frowned, considering his words. 'And what would the wizard have us do with such a creature?' he asked, though it seemed he already knew the answer.

'Trap him and keep him safe, until Gandalf has had a chance to interview him. Do not allow him to enter the Shire at any cost!' said Aragorn.

'Of course!' he said with a wry twist of the lips. Though he wondered at the wizard's interest in the strange creature, Halbarad said nothing of what he thought of it. Instead, he began to recall the movements of the Rangers.

'Rácadagnir is already at Fornost and Hrívion will cross Chetwood by tomorrow. They have been training the new rangers. While it is yet Autumn, it would be a good time to bring in the ones who have passed the tests and acquaint them with the Shire,' he mused. 'We could leave Aldatur in charge and let them watch over the periannath while Rácadagnir and Hrívion shall see to the northern borders.'

He stopped stirring the fire. 'I too, will travel to the Shire,' he decided. 'Perhaps we will have news of this Gollum -- and I could see to the traps myself.'

Aragorn nodded. 'It would set my mind at ease, to know you will take personal charge of the task.'

'I will not deny that a creature that can escape the Wood-elves' ken is a formidable quarry, a challenge not to be refused!' said Halbarad. He turned then to Aragorn's change of plans: 'Now, what else did Mithrandir say? Surely you can return to Fornost for a visit even if you intend to spend the winter in the Shire?'

'As yet there is much that I cannot say,' Aragorn began. 'And I do not wish to leave you with half-truths --' He paused, lost in thought. It seemed to Halbarad he chose the words with care as he said: 'But it is not to the Shire I am going. Mithrandir requires a guide --'

'Ah.'

'Ah?' said Aragorn, an eyebrow arched.

Halbarad ignored it. 'Never meddle in the affairs of wizards, it is said. Say no more!' he cried.

'You say that, though you availed yourself of his request?' Aragorn said with a wry look, glad that Halbarad's mood was no longer grim.

'And you shall be gone until the next Winter? Or the next decade?' Halbarad countered instead, only half in jest.

Aragorn smiled. 'I do not know, ' he admitted. 'It may be that I shall be gone for two years, but I shall return after that, whether this venture succeed or not.'

'Very well,' said Halbarad as he rose. A few strands of light had strayed in through the balding eaves. 'I should be leaving if I were to gain on Hrívion by tomorrow.' He threw down the faggot and said: 'There is much to do and I would be at Fornost before the Winter comes.'

Wordlessly, Aragorn nodded. 'And I should return to the Pony,' he said. He watched as Halbarad prepared his pack.

'Send what word you can to Elrond,' he said.

'Of course,' replied Halbarad. Soon, he was ready but for one last matter. As he moved to put out the fire, Aragorn stopped him.

'Leave it,' he said. 'I need its company for a while yet.'

Halbarad nodded in understanding. 'Do not linger overlong, kinsman,' he admonished.

'Just for a little,' Aragorn assured him, 'before I return to terrorize Barliman anew.'

Halbarad laughed, and then solemnly, he embraced his kinsman. 'Namarie, Aragorn,' he said before melting into the shadows under the elm.

Noon was nigh when Aragorn left the vale. The day had turned grey, and the mists, though thinned by the sun, lingered still. In the distance, clusters of treetops were visible above the fog, beckoning like a fleet of ships at harbour, hues of red and amber turning the lush treetops into golden crowns.

He would not return by the way he came, for that would surely draw the villagers' interest, to see Strider busy with his secretive comings and goings. There were other, less obvious ways. Before he did, however, he had a piece of unfinished business.

The Ferny boy was near to where he had lost Strider, pacing under some poplars. Panting and muttering under his breath, he seemed more concerned with losing sight of the Ranger, unperturbed that his quarry might return; or perhaps the thought that the Ranger might return did not occur to him.

Through the grey mist, the Ranger watched him for a moment – satisfied that the boy was unharmed, save, perhaps, for his pride. He turned to leave, but the sight of the thicket of nettles caught his eye. He frowned, for the mist concealed another danger nigh to the cruel vines.

He strode up to the boy.

'Lor!' the boy exclaimed as Strider loomed noiselessly up before him. Flustered, he stepped back, arms raised to shield his face. He felt the nettles' stinging grasp as they tangled his feet. Backwards he fell, and arms flailed. He closed his eyes, braced for more pain. But there was none, even after long moments had passed.

Slowly he opened his eyes. Then he became aware that he was swinging above the ground, held up by his right arm. The mist had parted, stirred by his struggles. Sharp rocks sat beneath his feet, and lied here and there as the ground fell away into a barren hollow. He would have had a nasty fall but for the firm grip on his wrist. He shuddered.

'Frightened?' said a voice that made his skin crawl, near to his ear. 'Remember how it feels when you are tempted again to meddle in business not your own.'

The boy's eyes widened. 'Let go! Let me go or I'll tell my dad!' he shouted, struggling harder.

'Let you go?' said the Ranger softly. 'Were I to leave you be, you would have taken a nasty fall.'

'You--you scared me!' the boy shouted. 'It's your fault if I fall! I'm going to tell Dad, just you wait!'

The Ranger said nothing, but merely held the arm, though he was careful to keep clear of the boy's thrashings. Patiently, he waited.

In vain the boy cried and struggled. Finally, he quietened down though he trembled still, frightened almost out of his wits to be held thus by the Ranger.

And so it was that he stood for a moment when Strider set him on the ground away from the wicked rocks, stunned that the Ranger did him no harm. Then he scrambled beyond Strider's reach and turned around to spit on the ground between them, proud at his own daring.

Strider merely looked at him. Disconcerted by the unblinking gaze, he turned and ran away.

The Ranger shook his head and turning another way, disappeared into the stand of trees.

--- --- ---

Night came early for the sun had dropped behind a high cloudbank, leaving only feeble rays to fend off the coming darkness.

Gandalf lay in his bed, glad to be able to rest before midnight.

Aragorn had returned in the early afternoon, with assurance that the Shire's watch would be strengthened. And aware that another lengthy council was at hand, Gandalf had asked for food to be brought to his room again. Thankfully, it ended much earlier than the previous night's session.

Aragorn had decided to leave Bree right away while Gandalf was to stay the night, and meet with him at dawn, beyond the South-gate. So this night at least, the wizard would enjoy the warmth of a comfortable bed.

'To Mirkwood then,' Gandalf murmured drowsily as he drifted off in sleep.

His eyes flew open at the sound of light tapping. He turned his head, for it came from the door. He waited.

There came another tentative knock.

'What in--' he muttered as he threw off the blankets.

He drew a breath and with his back still stiff from being rudely awakened, made his way to the door with careful steps.

Someone was speaking through it. 'Gandalf, wake up.' It was Butterbur.

'Yes?' Gandalf rasped, his voice thick with sleep.

'Open the door,' he called.

The door creaked, an ominous warning amidst the silence of the late night.

With a fist on his hip, Gandalf said: 'Well, Barley, I'm flattered that you would miss my company, but it's late and I'm all ready for bed if you can't tell.'

'Late? Why it's morning already!' whispered Barliman. 'It's dawn now, can't you tell? Oh yes, another grey dawn, 'tis autumn afterall.' At Gandalf's look, he said: 'You did ask to be woken before first light.' He peered beyond the window the tall man's fisted arm shaped with his body, and shivered as mist breath escaped his shuddering lips. 'Though first crow would be more apt today.'

'Why do you whisper then?' asked Gandalf, a little irritated.

'I don't want to wake the other guests. Oh, here you go,' he pushed the bundle he was clutching into the wizard's hands. When Gandalf showed no sign of taking the bundle, he explained: 'You seemed eager for an early start, so here's food you can eat on your way.' He hesitated, then said: 'I wouldn't take the South-gate, if I were you.'

'And why would I not?' returned Gandalf.

'Ferny's house sits at the end--' Barliman began.

'He owns neither Road nor gate!' said Gandalf, annoyed.

'Yes, but you were seen with the Ranger--' said Barliman, as he tried again to press the bundle into the wizard's hands.

Gandalf nodded. 'I see.' Reaching forth, he accepted the bundle. Then he smiled at the flustered landlord. 'Thank you, Barley.'

Butterbur dismissed the gratitude with an awkward wave of the hand. ''Tis what any friend would do. Take care of yourself,' he said as he grasped Gandalf's hands. 'I must return to the common room now.' He began to turn away, then stopped. His voice lowered, Butterbur said: 'And I hope you've learnt your lesson --.' He paused, and then he cast a look down the hallway. 'Stay away from them Rangers!' he whispered fiercely. Then he disappeared down the hallway.

Gandalf smiled with fondness._ If you but only knew, my dear Butterbur_, he thought with a resigned shake of his head. 'Well,' he said then to himself. 'I have yet to find my way to the Road without going through the gate. This would be as a good time as any to try.'

He dressed swiftly and made his way to the main door.

'It is not far. Perhaps if I hurry, --' he murmured as he opened the door.

Softly he closed the door and peered into the unlit street. 'I hope Aragorn has got a nice fire,' he muttered as he shivered. He looked up and down the street. 'Of course, I would need to find him first.'

'Worry not,' said a familiar voice in the common tongue. Then it added in a language not many knew: _'Mithrandir_.'

Gandalf peered into the shadows. 'Aragorn?' he hissed.

'This way,' answered the voice as a long-fingered hand beckoned.

Gandalf followed into the dim lane.

The gleam of silver and the soft creaking of leather were all the clues he had to find the Ranger by.

'I thought you might need help in this lightless dawn,' Aragorn whispered, as if he knew what Gandalf would say. 'Come, I know you are tired still -- you shall be able to get many hours of sleep this evening for I plan to stop early.'

'You mean hours of sleeplessness!' Gandalf said, as he pulled his cloak tight against the gathering cold.

'Would you rather travel through the night then?' asked Aragorn, as he strode away to the corner.

Gandalf caught up. 'What, and miss rolling in the hedges?' he shot back.

'It would be more enjoyable than tossing restlessly in a comfortable bed,' Aragorn agreed, leading the way forward.

'And the stars would be better company,' he returned, though a smile spread across his face. Then he followed the Ranger's lead, toward the Road.

* * *

**Footnotes**  
1. The Lord Of The Rings - Appendices; Appendix A, 'Here Follows A Part Of The Tale Of Aragorn And Arwen' 


	5. Over Misty Peaks

**NOTE**: All "Elvish Translations" is under "Reference" on the "Incidentals, Credits, Reference and Acknowledgements" page.

--- --- ---

**INTO THE DARK AGAIN  
**by_ Wayfarer  
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)_

**Three  
****Over Misty Peaks**

Heavy with dew, the frigid morning air was stiff with the mist of autumn chill. No sign remained of rain the night past. Pebbles strewn on paths gouged by the downpour sat cold and grey.

Over them Gandalf picked his way with care, probing for false footfalls with his walking stick, and he was not a little unmoved by Aragorn's sure-footed stride. Now he stood ahead, a ghost in the mist.

As Gandalf neared, he saw that Aragorn was casting about, searching as if for something on the edge of his vision.

'Do you hear it?' he asked.

Before Gandalf could ask what it was that held his attention, from afar he heard a sound. It ended quickly, but Gandalf thought it seemed like the clash of stone or bone. He was reminded of stone giants hurling boulders and rocks onto pathways and trolls crushing their prey.

Aragorn too stood still, distracted, maybe, by a faint echo. 'Under the mist, it sounds as rain-drops of a far-off storm were gathered and dashed at once against unyielding rocks. So oddly familiar.' He turned, his brow creased as he bent his thought to chasing memories of the muted sounds. 'I will have a look,' he decided.

Gandalf nodded. When his breath had calmed, he asked: 'Should I wait here?'

The Man shook his head: 'There is no sign of danger. Still, I do not think it safe to tarry here in the open. Keep walking; I will return to you if I may--' He turned toward the peak and gestured: 'Else we shall meet at the stone outcrop three miles northeast. It is not far from the path.' Then he was gone, silent as shadows.

For well nigh an hour, Gandalf had trodden with care over the rocks. But now he halted and turned his eyes to the west, away from the formidable mountain wall. Many times he had crossed these mountains, yet experience did not make it easier for always his lungs laboured to draw sustenance from the air; air that was thin and whispering in a shrill voice, moved and stirred by the wind.

The mist had lifted, and all round was a clear view of the mountains and the lands they straddled. From under his feet rough flanks of stone fell away to the border between bare ground and the fields of grass and trees straddling the mountains' girth. Imladris lay far below them, lost amid the grey-green mounds and clefts of hills and valleys at the mountains' feet then hidden in mist. Tall slopes of the range Men called the Misty Mountains rose behind, cloaked in early snow. The unseen peaks were covered by clouds that raced in from all directions to meet in a mad swirling mist, a dance of frost, ice and rain. Caught by the tall range, like skeans tangled in swords, they lingered, dancing around the peaks even as the harsh crowns rend and break them again and again into the tattered mist veil that gave the mountains their name.

Hidden among the mountain peaks was the High Pass and through it the Forest Road that ran down to the River Anduin and thence into Mirkwood where Aragorn had hoped for aid in their hunt.

_Already I am tired! _He thought in consternation at the stiffness gathering in his knees.

As his gaze swept over the drear vista before him, he wondered for a moment where in the vastness of the lands was Bilbo. No doubt the Dwarves would care for his safety as well as they would one of their own, and though the risk of the old hobbit had been passed on, Gandalf could do naught but worry.

_He is beyond my ken, for now_, he thought. _The chief danger lay still in the Shire, my concern should be for Frodo and the finding of Gollum. _He drew his cloak close as a chill wind arose. _And if Aragorn does not return soon, I shall have more immediate concerns to hold my thoughts!_

Gandalf turned back toward the scant path, and strained his eyes as he searched the mountainside, lit as if by twilight, for through the sky was bright, the slopes lied under the shadows of the high peaks. No light would touch the ground he stood on until the sun westered.

Of Aragorn there was no sign. Gandalf took the time to ponder the changes in his humour since they met in the Prancing Pony. The questions he had and the swelling of hope and dread was overwhelmed by impatience as they neared the Loudwater, and the Ford of Bruinen -- they were going to Imladris for it was there that they would provision themselves for the crossing over the Hithaeglir. The voice of the rushing river sufficed to remove the cares of Aragorn, for ere they gained the bridge, his step lightened; he did not linger by the Ford and chose to make for the House of Elrond with all haste. In the deepest night they reached the gates of the House, and even at that late hour, there were Elves to greet them, among them Elrond and Arwen.

Gandalf then spent his time with Elrond, closeted in the Elf's study. Though Aragorn sometimes joined them in council, he was more often found in the company of Arwen or the twins, Elladan and Elrohir.

After only five days in the vale, they had bidden farewell to Elrond and his kin. And it was with much reluctance that Aragorn turned again to the road. He was quiet, and kept his thoughts to himself as they made their way out of Imladris. He seemed listless, unwilling, or unable, to share his thoughts and feelings. But Gandalf watched him with a knowing eye.

As they neared the Hithaeglir, however, the fierce alertness so familiar to Gandalf began again to burn in Aragorn's eyes, though he was not minded to say more than a few words even as they sat by the fire at night. A little at first, the Man had shed the pensive mood that gripped him since they departed the House of Elrond. When they reached the foothills of the Hithaeglir, he seemed fully reconciled. It eased the wizard's mind. And as the journey stretched forth, and they neared the peaks, the journey was easier to endure and time easier to pass when there was another to hold conversation with, more so when they were sitting around the fire at night for the incessant crackling and spitting of the burning wood was wearying after nights of sleeping under the silent stars.

Overhead, the fierce cry of an eagle pierced through his thoughts and broke his reverie. Eyes straining against shadowed walls of the grey mountainside, he looked along the path Aragorn had taken. But of the Dúnadan, there was no sign. At length, he began again his climb.

--- --- ---

Among the rocks high over the wizard's head Aragorn stood, his head raised as he frowned intently upon the cliff that stood before him. Strange rhythmic sounds, as of great rocks clashing, rang out from time to time, and filled the air with hollow echoes. Though it seemed it was near enough to touch if he but reached out his hand, Aragorn reckoned that it would take, at the least, three hours ere he gained the cliff-top. Orcs were uncommon high in the mountains' lonely range, but foolish was he would did not guard against attacks. Already he had been away from Gandalf for two hours. And yet he needed a clearer look.

Near at hand was a ridge and it likely overlooked the cliff-top. Judging it to be a short climb to its peak, Aragorn turned toward it, and lengthened his stride.

Half an hour later, he gained the peak of the ridge, his breath light despite his rapid climb up its steep flank. To another, it would seem as if ants were milling about the cliff-top, but for Aragorn a clear view was afforded. He smiled as he took in the sight, a little relieved. Shapes of many goats greeted his eyes, the sure-footed animals that lived among the sheer cliffs of the Hithaeglir's lofty ridges. It was the rutting season and the great rams were caught up in a frenzy of battles and mating: it was the clash of their mighty horns that filled the chill mountain air.

Yet he knew that where the herds grazed, hunters were sure to be near. The cliff on which they gathered was too near to Aragorn's intended road -- they would have to seek another path. And though he much desired to linger and watch the great rams at their contest, he knew he needed to find Gandalf. With one last look at the majestic animals he turned again, and descended quickly the steep slopes. Toward the south and west he strode, following the path laid out by long use and kept by the Beornings, hopeful of gaining upon the wizard within the hour. His plans, however, soon changed.

_Tis true, the orcs stir,_ he thought as he studied the tracks that drew his attention. _Fresh! _His eyes swept through the hooded slopes, keen to the smallest movement. He was in no danger. He cast his glance downward again, brooding over his discovery. _Very bold indeed to venture this near to the Road. What drives them ---- _Quickly he stood up.

As thoughts of what might befall Gandalf pressed upon his mind, Aragorn lengthened his stride and was soon sprinting toward the stone grove. At times he broke his stride, stopping to read again the signs left by the orcs, careless in their boldness. Even at this great height, where stone and cold earth did not easily yield, it was not impossible to see marks that told of the passage of many feet. Yet, trained to the use of his rare gift of keen sight as he was, even the Dúnadan required time to read the tracks. Loath he was to do so for it caused more delay to his already late quest. But to risk losing time later over a wrong decision was an even worse thought to bear. And so, at times flying over the rough ground, at times sifting through scattered scree, Aragorn drew ever nearer the orcs. To his dismay, they showed no sign of veering away from the stone outcrop where Gandalf would no doubt be waiting.

Slowly weaving his way through rock-smothered slopes, he began to despair of reaching Gandalf before them. In his mind he began to lay out plans as he thought of the possible manners of his eventual reunion with the wizard.

--- --- ---

The sun had yet to gain the peak of her climb: with barely enough light to banish shadows from the day, the mountain flanks were still a drab world. Stones and boulders strewn upon the pathway and lying near seemed as wan sentries under the false twilight sky. Concealment was easy among their tumbling mess, and danger sometimes lurk within.

With great care, Gandalf neared the stones. Often, he stopped and listened while with his eyes he searched for shadows that moved of their own volition. He found himself wishing for the light of the westering sun, to burn away the doubts of the darkly shapes that sat in his mind.

Then he would begin his walk again, marvelling at the many shapes and sizes of the stones that now flanked his passage, for some were no more than very large rocks and yet others were of such a size that they seemed to be mountains reduced by wind and rain into shades of their former might.

The wind was rising again, and he pulled his cloak closer, the other hand on his hat.

A sudden gush of cold air rushed in through the gaps of the uncaring stones, butting against the slope, urgent as a herd of Kine that would cast down the mountain with their might. _A roof is what I need, _Gandalf thought, as he tottered and struggled to hold on his hat. Then with his staff in an awkward grasp, mixed among a handful of his cloak, he looked for shelter. Beneath one large boulder he sat, huddled at the mouth of a small cavern carved, no doubt, by the wind.

At length the wind softened, and among its whisper, Gandalf heard the soft crunch of unshod feet on the grey slate that covered the ground and the larger rocks. The sounds were faint, as if the owner, or owners, was coming from the sides of the boulder he was sheltering under. With a swift move, he reached for his staff and retreated into the cavern belly, careful to make no noise.

His heart began to race as he discerned more sounds, nearer this time, as of feet scrabbling on the steep flank of a boulder. His grip tightened as he listened for footfalls as they moved overhead, hoping they were the blithe steps of some passing animal.

Suddenly, a shadow flickered across the cave mouth. Though intent on the sounds, still he was alert enough to deflect with a quick parry the rock hurled by the form that appeared at the cavern mouth. The cave echoed with the sharp crack of the stone hitting the wall.

The orc growled and backed away as the pellet dropped to the ground, a little surprised at the quickness of the old man's reflex. He stopped retreating as one orc after another joined him, each one larger than the last. The cavern mouth was soon crowded. They began to quarrel, and the first orc was cuffed.

While they bickered, Gandalf drew his sword. As it left its sheath, the orcs stopped their quarrelling, distracted perhaps by the whisper of metal. Their eyes grew wide as it seemed to flash for a moment though there was no light strong enough that would reflect off the blade. The smallish orc begin to whimper. The largest one, clearly the captain' slapped him again. Then he stepped into the cave, his eyes gleaming with interest at the sword as Gandalf swung it in warning. He took a step nearer and then crouched down.

'Well, what's this?' he demanded. 'That's a nice toy, old man. How'd you get it?'

The orc captain seemed to fill the cave-mouth, and Gandalf's thoughts raced. To use his power was perhaps the quickest way but it would not be the safest.

'Well?' the orc said. 'Can't be the cat got your tongue eh?' he pressed. 'None of those skinny things found up here.' The others laughed and clapped at their leader's wit.

'Could be a cat bone stuck in his skinny throat, Grushluk!' hooted a lesser orc.

He took critical glances around the dim cave. _Well, at least this is a defensible position, and they can but come one by one. _The staff he balanced in his left hand, and his grip on the sword haft tightened. _Would that Aragorn were not far off, _Gandalf thought with fervour. Then he braced himself. 'Come closer then and have a look,' he invited.

A little amused at the Man's insolence, Grushluk took another step forward, his spear loosely held. But he stopped there when he marked the competent manner in which the sword was held. Eyes narrowed as he considered the old man, taking his measure and the clearly precious sword. He began to wonder too, why a man was travelling alone, in these times when crossings over the mountains were rare and when it was more likely to be trading bands of dwarves who risked the road from one side of the range to the other.

His eyes strayed to the sword again, compelled by foreboding. The sight of it brought him a strange chill. An unreasoning urge to leave quickly welled up. It annoyed him for this mountain was under his charge and he refused to be cowed by nameless fears. Yet he could not help but to shiver as the blade gleamed again----

Suddenly he howled, surprising his troop. They shouted in dismay, backing into each other and growling in reply.

Grushluk roared a command and all but the small Orc were suddenly still. He was reduced to whimpering.

'Shut up, Snoga!' The orc captain kicked the limp body aside. As one of the other orcs crowded behind him brandished something, Grushluk lunged.

At once Gandalf reacted, raising his sword to deflect the blow. It never came.

Yet, a flash of pain followed and he fought to keep his balance, clutching at his side. Warmth filled his hand as blood rushed out of the wound. As his breath caught for a bit, he leaned into the stone behind him. Still he was aware and as an orc rushed in, strangely silent. He shifted his position quickly, and adjusted his grip of the sword heft and sidestepped.

The orc's own forward thrust was against him. Twisting in the tight confines of the cave, his grip on the spear could not be adjusted quickly enough to ward off the stroke he knew would come. He resigned himself to the pain he would have to bear with until they returned to the caves, and the damage to his armour that would need repairs. Yet, he need not have fretted. His eyes widened as in one swift move, the sword swung upward and out, slicing through armour, cutting into flesh. There was no scream, only a loud grunt as the orc's gasping breath was driven out by the impact of crashing into the cavern wall.

Quickly, Gandalf turned the sword as he adjusted his swing. A dull sound echoed as another stone hit the blade. He looked up to see the other orc move away from the concealing bulk of his captain, in his hands and plainly visible was a small catapult. _Clever! _thought Gandalf. The lunge had been a ploy by the captain to draw his attention, leaving him open to the attacks.

Grushluk grunted: the ruse worked well enough. And yet, it was clear the old man's abilities were above that of common Men – that he was able to react so swiftly was proof enough. The captain did not doubt trickeries would work no longer. Already one was lost, and he was not inclined to risk personal damage to life and limb. He decided upon force. Yet even if he chose to do nothing, the old fool would bleed dry likely before the cursed light reached these sheltered slopes. He grinned at that thought. 'Get the others, Orskash ---- I _want_ that sword and I'll personally squash any maggot that's not here in thirty minutes.'

Throbbing pain lanced through his side. He winced and gasped, leaning against the wall lest he fell._ How inopportune if I were to lose consciousness,_ he thought The flow from his wound, he knew, must be stemmed.

Thirty minutes before the orcs try again. _At the least,_ Gandalf thought. Until then, the sting of Glamdring's bite would hold them off. Wait was all that was left for Gandalf to do, until fear of the sword wore off and the orcs try again or until they were driven off. _Or----,_ the thought trailed off as he felt the blood flow through his fingers anew.

He retched as a gust stole into the little cave. The dead orc was beginning to smell, but the body would serve. With care, he shifted himself. Slowly and painfully, he positioned it to offer what scant concealment it could.

In the dimness, he began to fumble with his cloak. Then holding the garment by the edge, he used Glamdring to begin a cut. With one wary eye on the orcs outside, he pulled at the rent cloth, careful to keep the noise of tearing fabric as soft as he could. Then, a long strip of his cloak in hand and some dried _athelas _from his pouch, he began to dress his wound.

The pain, finally, faded. As well as he could, Gandalf made himself comfortable.

Long moments passed, and he kept his eyes locked on the cavern mouth and the shapes that hovered there. Still it seemed his mind began to drift much too soon. As sleep threatened to take hold, he struggled to keep awake.

His eyes flew open at the sound of a loud yelp. The outline of the shape lying on the ground caused Gandalf to nearly jump up. He panted as shards of pain shot up to his mind, and blinked to clear the fireworks blurring his vision. Then his mind came awake and he remembered: it was the slain orc.

But something, he knew, was afoot. Daylight would not be far off, for the cave was growing quickly warm, and time was not on their side: the rising sun would force their hand. Likely, the orcs desired to bring him and Glamdring with them as they retreated into the dark.

Sweat beaded his brow as he pondered the state of affairs for he had no desire, dead or alive, to enter again the orc-tunnels that threaded through the bowels of the mountains. Yet he could do naught but wait. The sun would soon set the western faces of the mountains alight and maybe he would be free of the cave then; whether in the company of Aragorn or the orcs, he would not guess.

--- --- ---

Aragorn was no longer alone, that much he was aware from the footfall echo that sounded a moment after his own, the occasional rustle of dry faggots and the crack of brittle scree. Before him, the way onward was a sliver of flattened earth wedged between sharp stone fangs, a dry runnel shaped by bare slopes, little more than a breach in the cliffside just broad enough for a man. He knew once he pass the tall rocks, the sheer walls and narrow passage within would offer no means of defence. But it was a trap he walked into willingly.

Five paces into the cleft, it turned dark for a moment.

'Hold!' a deep voice growled.

Aragorn stopped, and with a slow deliberate move, pushed his hood back. He looked up to see a face with a great shaggy beard, and noted the spear aimed between his eyes. The man was astride the crevice lips.

Another shadow loomed beside the man, looking down upon him. 'What business brings you away from the path?' an even deeper voice demanded.

'I am tracking orcs.'

For a long moment, all was still.

Then from beyond the cleft, the same voice rumbled. 'This way,' it ordered.

Aragorn emerged to see a tall Beorning waiting, fist on hip and leaning on a huge axe.

'Tracking orcs?' he asked, none too pleased. 'Have the rangers run out of sport?'

'These orcs are in my way,' Aragorn said. 'They move toward the stone grove south of here, where I fear Gandalf----'

'Gandalf?' the Beorning said, suspicion creeping into his voice. He beckoned Aragorn forward.

'Yes, Gandalf, who is _Mithrandir_ to the fair folk,' Aragorn said gravely. 'I am his guide, many know me as Strider.'

The Beorning frowned, considering his words. 'A guide to Gandalf, so you say.'

Aragorn spread his hands. 'My word is all I have, and this.' Bending slightly to the side, he drew forth a small dagger from his booted calf in a slow deliberate move. On it could be seen runes as only Elves could make. Despite the faint light, the blade was an unusual hue, sheathed in a ghost blue sheen.

'I am Baran,' the Beorning said at last, giving his name in return. He frowned, thinking on the changes he had to make to his plans. 'Time runs short. Now tell me your tale, quickly.'

Aragorn shook his head as he returned the blade to its hiding place. 'Time runs short as you say. But unless I have guessed wrong, we pursue the same quarry, though for different purposes,' he said. 'Let me hunt with you.'

Baran stared darkly at the stranger whose calm gaze caused his own to deepen into a black scowl.

'I _must_ get to Gandalf,' Aragorn pressed.

'You can do nothing that we can't,' he said.

Aragorn rested his hand on the hilt of the knife on his belt as was his wont, and there was a note of steel in his voice as he said: 'I seek merely to do my duty.' He locked eyes with Baran. 'Gandalf's safety is my charge.'

The Beorning glared at Aragorn in a manner that caused him to wonder if perhaps he would have done better to continue on his own. Then, in a move that surprised him, the Beorning merely looked down the bridge of his nose at him.

As a cast between grimace and displeasure flitted across his bearded face, Baran called: 'Bereg!' A stout fellow stepped forward, gripping an equally stout bow. 'The ranger joins you.' Bereg nodded, and eyed the stranger with a critical glance, taking note of the small bow he carried. 'And you, Strider, follow Bereg's lead closely.' He leaned near and said in his slow rumbling manner: 'I know of duty and charges.' Then he motioned for Bereg to lead the ranger away. 'We are already delayed,' Baran said as the ranger moved past him. 'I do not want my plans changed, Strider.'

Aragorn nodded, 'Gandalf is my chief concern.'

'Come,' Bereg said then. 'How good are you?' he asked. His gaze was fixed on the ranger's bow.

'I can take a bird, in flight, at thirty yards,' came the reply. Bereg shot a quick glance, but the ranger looked as grave as ever. He grunted. 'We must hurry.' So saying, he broke into a run, leading Aragorn into the boulders encircling another of the Hithaeglir's nameless peaks.

Arms folded, Grushluk stared at the scout. As Orskash prepared himself, he could feel the others retreating further back. 'Gutless maggots,' Orskash said under his breath.

'Well?' asked Grushluk.

Orskash swallowed hard. 'I couldn't find the others ----' He jumped back as something hit the ground with a dull thud, bounced and came to rest at his feet. He looked down to see a leering head. The gruesome face grinned madly at him, sickening in its familiarity. It was Snikdúsh. With a sudden horrifying clarity, Orskash understood -- it was not the burning light that caused the others scouts to abandon their posts.

Clear as the cursed day, the answer was far worse than he could ever imagine in his miserable life. Among the cliffs circling the grove were movement. His lips curled into a snarl as he stepped back.

''Ware!' Grushluk shouted as men swarmed forth. 'Bear-skins!' Already Orskash had an arrow nocked, and took aim at the rocks from where the head was thrown. Quickly he released it and dove behind a boulder as a rain of arrows answered his shot. He could see the cave: Snoga was cowering before it. Of Bog and Ogluk there was no sign. For the others, their fates were certain. They were caught in the open, with nowhere to hide; they were quickly surrounded, out-numbered and out-flanked. Shielded by the boulder, Orskash watched in helpless anger as the others were overwhelmed, falling from arrow wounds, and mighty blows of staffs and axes. He shuddered as Sguk's throat was torn with bare hands. Never had screams of the dying bothered him but this time he found in the noise an echo he could not ignore, for in it rang his own end.

But there was no place for self-pity. Quickly he let fly another, aimed at the man trying to drag his fallen brethren to safety. He roared as the arrow sank into the bear-skin's chest. Then he began to pick off men within bow-shot.

Suddenly, an arrow shaft protruded from his arm-guard. For a moment he stared at it. Then he shouted and threw down his bow. Quickly, with his free hand, he pulled at the arrow, while he searched for the man who had shot him. It was not a bear-skin but a man nonetheless. Orskash snapped the arrow shaft, oblivious to the pain. Then he jumped out, and picking up a spear that lied nearby, hurled it at the man as he turned back.

For a moment Orskash stood stunned, for the man had side-stepped the spear: no man could move with such speed. Then swinging his axe, Orskash leapt over the boulder, and charged, only to have a Beorning jump into his path

Orskash forgot the strange man as he engaged the Beorning. In a few quick strokes, he had overpowered the man, the blade of his axe bit into the bear-skin's torso, crushing his chest as he struggled. A satisfying sound of bone breaking greeted his ears.

Quickly, he pulled the axe loose, and took aim at another bear-skin running at him.

Iron clashed upon iron.

It took nearly all his strength to block the blows of the heavy-set man, but he was the stronger and soon, the tables turned. Seizing an opening, he aimed low and chopped into the man's legs. Then as the man paused in shock, Orskash hacked into his shoulder, loosening his hold on his weapon. As the man dropped onto his fallen axe, Orskash relaxed his grip on his own, panting. Threading through his ragged breath was a pitiful chorus, moans of the dying. Annoyance quickened his bloodlust, and he turned to the still living man. Orskash did not stop to consider the danger of being in the open overlong; again and again he fall the axe, pressing the man down by his foot, unmoved by the man's cries. Not until his chest became a mess of soft red pulp did Orskash stop. At last, he realized his own danger.

As he muttered thanks to Azog for watching over him while he gave vent to his folly, he turned, seeking the safety of the nooks among the stones. But he stopped as he saw Grushluk run his spear through a Beorning. As the man flailed, Grushluk pulled the man nearer. He snarled and sunk his teeth into the dying man's face, muffling the screams. Then he spat out the bloody flesh and pushed the dead man off his spear.

Orskash saw movement and shouted: 'Grushluk, behind you!' The captain spun around, brandished his spear as a huge bear-like figure rushed at him, holding a staff aloft. The Beorning's roar resounded as he swung the staff. Grushluk yelled in reply as he loosed his mis-aimed spear. Then he drew his scimitar, just in time and wood clashed upon metal. They leapt back, and the orc staggered from the might of the attack. Quickly he swung his scimitar; it dug into the ground, stopping his backward fall. He held firm, and glowered at the hulking Man.

The Beorning glared back. He circled the wary orc, probing for weakness, while Grushluk tried time and again to attack. Then the bear-skin lunged, swinging his staff again. Grushluk pulled his scimitar up, deflecting a blow that left his sword arm aching from the jarring impact.

Orskash watched in fascination. The scimitar was not usually a match for the longer reach of the bear-skin's staff, made from some strange wood that metal could not easily break. But Grushluk was a giant among orcs, and he had never been troubled by the bear-skin weapons -- until now, for this Beorning was big. He was raining blows that Grushluk could barely avoid while the orc was increasingly angered by his inability to fight back.

The Beorning would swing the staff, sometimes feinting. And when Grushluk reacted, he would find himself hit in another place. He took a heavy blow to the head when he was protecting his side. Orskash flinched from the sound he heard, sure that the captain's head was cracked, despite his helm. Then the staff whirled again, and hit Grushluk's leg. He roared in pain and jumped back. Enraged, he rushed back in, attacking the bear-skin in a frenzy, aiming for the head, the arms or any place that seemed open. Always the man reacted with a swiftness that did not seem possible for his size. Suddenly, the Beorning's staff broke, splintered by the might of Grushluk's blow. The captain howled, and ran at the bear-skin as he began to step backwards. Grushluk raised the scimitar for what Orskash thought was a fatal blow, but the bear-skin dove and the scimitar bit into the ground. Quick as a cat, the bear-skin jumped up and Orskash groaned to see the axe in his hand. As Grushluk struggled to free his blade, the axe cut into his side, In pain, he yelped and fell to the ground. The Beorning followed, hacking at him with increasing efficiency. Soon, Orskash realized there was no blood pouring from the axe wounds: it was too blunt to bite through flesh, but it was certainly still able to inflict pain.

Already, Orskash could barely open his eyes, for they hurt from the strengthening brightness. The sun would soon shine on the western slopes, and Orskash knew once it did, all would be lost.

Grushluk's head was bleeding, he was favouring his left leg and Orskash could see he no longer wielded his scimitar with quite the same force and his strokes seemed slower. With a sudden speed, Orskash dove back into the place where he had thrown his bow. Grimly, Orskash fitted another arrow and took aim at the bear-skin. His armguard glistened with blood and his arm shook with effort as he drew the bow.

Just then, hearing a growl behind him, Orskash swung around, his bow raised. Another bear-skin crouched on the rocks. In haste, he released the arrow, grunting at the strain on his left arm. It caught the man in the side, penetrating with a dull thud as he shouted an oath and leapt. But for Orskash, it was still too late. He fell backward, his wind knocked out as he hit the boulder that had shielded him. Gasping for air, he clawed at the hands closed around his throat. He flailed and struggled, frantic for breath. Moments passed and as his tongue lolled, his head fell to the side. His eyes still wide open, he saw the big bear-skin swing the axe into Grushluk's already bloodied face. The captain staggered. His head hung, and he no longer held his scimitar. Then he laughed, an odd gurgling sound, as if his throat was filled with liquid he could not swallow.

'Azog take you!' Grushluk spat. 'Burn in the pits of Darkness!' He sunk onto his knees and fell forward. Orskash saw no more.

Panting lightly, Baran stood over the fallen orc. Though he did not understand the words uttered, the malice in the orc's curse was plain. The force of it surprised him and for a moment he was trapped among vengeful goblins, in the tunnels under the mountains. Shaking his head, he shrugged off the distasteful vision. Then extending the axe, he turned the body over. One side of the face had caved in, the eye hung by a thin sliver of flesh while the other stared sightless, and from the gaping mouth dark blood flowed. Baran grunted and looked up. Bodies laid everywhere, upon the rocks, covering the ground, most of them goblin carcasses. He turned to the stone grove.

'Strider?' he called.

'Here.'

He went among the stones, going toward the voice. The ranger was outside a small cave, tending to an old man. Nearby was the body of a small orc, his hands clawed at his throat where the fletching of an arrow sprouted.

The ranger's sword laid near his hand. Baran stopped just beyond his reach.

He looked up then, and Baran found himself staring again into those strange grey eyes, and for a moment it was as if a different man was cloaked in the Ranger's raiment. He was overwhelmed, as if the Ranger could touch the sky if he but stretched forth his hand.

Then Strider spoke and the moment passed. 'He has lost blood. He is not fit to travel, but I would have him far from here.'

Baran grunted. 'Dress his wounds. We move soon.'

'Strider,' called a Beorning. 'Gandalf wakens.'

Aragorn nodded and returned to tending to a Man with an arrow wound. He worked swiftly and then returned to the cave.

As Aragorn had feared, Gandalf struggled for breath. He knelt by the old man's side, and waited.

'You're late,' Gandalf complained when at last he could speak.

'I was delayed.'

'Really?' Gandalf returned. He coughed again. 'Since you've tended my wounds, I forgive you this time.' He leaned against the rock, and closed his eyes.

Gently, Aragorn checked Gandalf's pulse and the dressing. Pleased that the bleeding has stopped, he left Gandalf to what rest he could. He climbed the stones, and watched the Beornings at their tasks.

Soon, Baran returned, still holding the bloody axe. Orc-blood stained his tunic. Wrapped around his arm where it was bruised a grisly mix of purple and black was a band of cloth, and across his chest was a long wound, likely inflicted by a scimitar.

Aragorn leapt down from the boulder. 'He no longer bleeds. But he would not be able to move at any speed.'

'He will reach the Pass, even if I have to carry him there.'

'Since when have Beornings and Rangers began the habit of delicate discussion,' said a drowsy voice. They turned to see Gandalf leaning against the cave wall. He glared, hand pressed against his side.

'I merely thought you would appreciate the consideration,' said Baran.

'I am wounded, not losing sleep from overly sharp ears,' he said, the irritation in his voice unmistakable.

'Then you would agree that it is best to reach the Pass as soon as we may?'

'Of course!' Gandalf shot back. Then he frowned and thought for a moment. 'I will not be carried like a sack of potatoes!'

'You will not,' Baran said.

Gandalf looked ready to retort, then thought better of it. 'I suppose there is no other way, is there, Strider?'

Careful to keep the look on his face grave, Aragorn shook his head.

'We leave in five minutes,' said Baran.

Aragorn turned to the Beorning. 'Before we do, let me tend your wounds.'

Baran looked down at the gaping hole in his tunic. The chest wound caused by the orc captain was shallow and the blood had dried, but it had began to itch, and his arm too needed to be seen to. 'No, no delays,' he said.

Darkness covered the mountain peaks with a swift decisive hand. And for that small mercy, Gandalf gave much thanks. He was ready for the day to end, even if it meant chancing discovery by the orcs. For in spite of Aragorn's care, he felt himself at the end of his endurance, no longer able to bear riding upon a Beorning's back. They had moved over uneven ground, at a pace both brisk and careful. Rocked by the rhythm of the Beorning's gait, he wakened from time to time. And yet, he could do naught even as the steady pace lulled his tired mind, coaxing it into unconsciousness: he was falling back into darkness every time he managed to open his eyes.

And as with all meals the Beornings took on the mountains, dinner was cold, save for the drink of hot tea that Gandalf was made to take. But even the generous heap of athelas Aragorn steeped in it did not suffice to cheer his spirits nor waken his appetite. Not a word was uttered, even as Aragorn check again his wound dressing. And he soon lay down, asleep even as his eyes drew shut.

Through the night, as Aragorn sat by Gandalf, he observed the Beornings as they disappeared at regular intervals. Baran had finally allowed him to dress the wound, and was inspecting the camp boundary.

The calls of hunting wolf-packs would sound in the distance and time and again it would seem that some large animals prowled beyond their camp, their huffing breath and grunting growls plain to hear.

The next morning, they began early and the task of bearing Gandalf was taken in turn by the Beornings. Mostly, Gandalf slept, waking during the brief stops for Aragorn to check his dressing. So it went for many days until the wizard began to heal. The journey proceeded in silence. Aragorn saw naught of the Beornings except the one who was carrying Gandalf though he knew they were near. Even at night, the Beornings were not inclined to conversation, and Aragorn was left watching the sleeping wizard. For the first two days, they moved with great care, hiding quickly at the slightest hint of danger, and even breaking camp when the frenzied cries of wolves seemed to gather near.

But at last, the danger waned and they took to easier paths. Gandalf's appetite returned, slowly but surely. Aragorn was heartened. Soon, Gandalf was walking by himself, first for a few moments, then a few more until he was walking by himself for half the hour before rest was needed.

One day, Baran stepped out onto the path after Gandalf had passed. 'The orcs draw near,' he rumbled, as Aragorn drew abreast.

Aragorn nodded.

Baran stroked his beard, his brows seamed as a speculative look spread across his face as he examined the thoughts in his mind with his deliberate manner. He threw a glance in the direction where the wizard sat with his human mount. 'Is he mending?'

'Yes.'

Baran weighed his reaction. 'And if we were to walk longer?'

'He will be able to walk at length, on his own for some of that time,' said Aragorn.

The Beorning nodded. 'And if ----'

'And if the need arises, he can run and keep apace, for a little.'

Baran eyed Aragorn. 'Good,' he said.

That evening, as the fire burned low in its pit, Gandalf turned to Aragorn. 'Well?' he asked in a considerate whisper. 'It is just the two of us now. Since you thought me well enough to risk walking on my own, I am well enough to hear the tale, yes?'

'I found orc tracks,' Aragorn said. 'Then Baran who was hunting the orcs.'

'And I suppose you walked up to him and introduced yourself?'

Aragorn said nothing as a Beorning passed by. Then he resumed, filling in the gaps for Gandalf.

Gandalf sat for a moment. 'The orcs are bold indeed,' he whispered, as if talking to himself. His eyes flicked for a moment toward Aragorn. 'And the Beornings seemed to have found new interest in ranging the western slopes far beyond the Pass.' Aragorn nodded. Gandalf pursed his lips. 'Did you hear tell of when it began?'

After a moment's silence, Gandalf said: 'I see you've managed to keep to the wrong side of Baran's humour.'

Aragorn returned a pained look. 'There was no time for a proper introduction.'

'Yes,' said Gandalf. 'Yes, I know.' Then he looked gravely at Aragorn. 'But I am glad,' he said. 'For your timely arrival. Now, I suppose I should see about getting some information.' Pushing down on his staff, he stood up and beckoned at a Beorning. 'Tell Baran I would like to speak with him.'

'They never ceased trying,' Baran said as his brows creased into another scowl. He began sharpening the axe-head he held and the dry sound of whetstone against blade joined the hiss of the small fire in chorus. 'And we were always able to hold them back,' he said, shaping each word with obvious scorn. 'But thirteen years ago, it turned suddenly.' The crackling fire reflected in his eyes as the whetstone struck the axe-head with increasing force. 'We lost many,' he said. 'I have never seen such a thing. It was madness, and it was as if they were driven to try the impossible.' Then he gave an odd laugh. 'They took us by surprise, but only for a while.' It was a short bitter sound of triumph laden with hate. His fists were clenched, trembling as he calmed himself. 'After that first wave, we forced them back. It was a slow and painful task. But we have kept at it.' Then he turned silent, pouring all his attention to sharpening the axe.

'Well,' said Gandalf. 'I heard of trouble.' He looked at Baran speculatively. 'Strange but there was no word on the magnitude of it.'

Baran laid down the whetstone then, and fingered the sharpened edge. 'Not many know, aside from Mirkwood and the northern villages,' he said softly. 'We controlled it, order was restored, and the pass remained open.' He picked up the whetstone again, and then thought for a moment. 'There was no need to spread such news and cause unnecessary worry.' As the scrapping sound of stone striking iron began again, Baran spoke. 'Strangely there was less plundering, for they had more trackers to a band then we had seen since then.' He turned then to Gandalf. 'This isn't a matter of passing interest to you,' he said.

Gandalf returned his gaze with a thoughtful look. 'No,' he said then. It seemed to Baran that there was a note of pain, or maybe tiredness in the wizard's voice, as if he had answered this question far too many times. 'Some knowledge is not meant to be shared. But trust me when I tell you this: keep up your vigilance. For a time may soon come when your control of these mountains will weigh on the balance between victory and defeat. And even before then, maybe the Beornings will be called upon for what aid you may spare.'

Baran stared hard at Gandalf. 'As ever, you speak in riddles,' he glowered.

'You will have your answers, Baran, all in good time,' Gandalf said with a smile. 'All in good time.'

The Beorning rose then, hefting the axe as wolf howls sounded in the distance. 'I shall think on your words.'

Late one evening, Gandalf approached Aragorn as he stood looking out toward the setting sun, a lone dark figure against the fiery blaze of the last light of day. He stood by Aragorn, wondering what it was that the Dúnadan was searching for, or what he was thinking on. He waited, watching as the red flames that lit his face faded.'Could he, or it be here, do you think?' Aragorn asked finally.

Baran's words echoed in his mind. Indeed, what else would drive the goblins forth in such reckless numbers? In his turn, Gandalf peered into the dark creeping swiftly up the mountainside. 'I do not know.' A sudden urge to walk again the path Bilbo had trodden all those years ago seized him. But to what end? Only the hobbit had been to the creature's lair, and he had been lost. To retrace his steps was not an impossible task, but it required time, time that seemed to be in short supply. He shook his head. 'I know what you think, but I feel it a far better choice to begin our search from a trusted source, than to grasp at shadows in the mounting dark.' He turned back toward the campfire. In the faint distance, one of the Hithaeglir's nameless peaks gleamed pale. Somewhere beneath it was the High Pass. 'We can do no more here, but in this we are certain: the Enemy does not have him either. We may yet gain on them.'

Night had claimed the sky, scrapping away all signs of the sun, and replaced the sunset fires with the cold light of stars.

Aragorn walked by his side. 'You sound as if it were a simple task we are to do.'

Gandalf's pace slowed. 'There is always hope, and that is what I hold on to, in this as in all tasks I do.' He turned to face Aragorn. 'It lightens the burden,' he said with a wink even as he covered his healing wound with a hand. Then he sniffed at the air. 'Ah, I believe the water is boiling. Dinner!' He smiled and continued toward the campfire.

As he watched Gandalf walking away, the Dúnadan thought upon his words. He raised his head, searching for the brightest star. Then he too smiled, a faint wisp of mirth that faded quickly. 'Yes, there is always hope,' he whispered as he followed Gandalf.

Early the next afternoon, they halted before a wending path that quickly vanished between two steep flanks of stone. Only Baran was with them.

'Boron awaits you at the pass,' he said. 'Farewell and good luck with what you seek.'

'Farewell,' said Aragorn.

Gandalf said: 'And good luck with your hunt.'

'Always,' Baran growled. He turned, quickly claimed by the stones falling away into the grey day.

--- --- ---

Clouds swirled and scuttled across the air, obscuring the Vales from time to time, while flocks of birds flew at lesser heights, winging their way through wisps of churning cloud, sometimes scattering them to the wind.

Anduin lied far below, thin as a thread running long and silvery against the sun's glare, rushing as ever into the embrace of the unseen ocean away in the South. The land swelled and dipped in myriad shades of yellow, green, grey, marking valleys, hills and groves of trees. Away from the fallow plains on the River's eastern bank a great expanse of dark greenery spread, blanketing the distant horizon -- Mirkwood Forest, brooding and drear.

Three days' journey behind them was the High Pass, hidden again by mists and looming peaks that seemed to grow paler with each passing day as the snow that covered the frowning peaks crept ever downward, engulfing the grey mountain flanks.

'We shall break for the noon-day meal,' Aragorn said as he strode up. 'There is a clearing a little more than three hundred yards away, well shaded.'

Gandalf nodded. 'Lead on then.' He was mending. His wound troubled him no longer and he was not breathless as when they were still crossing the peaks: here on the lower slopes the air was thicker and easier to draw in. Still, the journey tired him for they kept a little off the Forest Road itself, always seeking cover among the stones that lined the grey slopes for aside from the Beornings, there were other watchers of the Road, and they did not wish to draw the attention of unfriendly eyes.

_Gandalf still leans far too heavily on his staff,_ he observed as he led the way. Well on the Road now, Aragorn voiced naught of his concern at the slow progress they made; he was mindful of the need to think of Gandalf's health.

Quick as thought, his hand was on the fletched end of an arrow as a shadow caught his eye. Then he relaxed as he recognized the familiar shape. _I should learn to be less fretful while we have the Beornings as our eyes and ears._ And yet, despite the toll to the Beornings that ensured their safe passage, still he was wary for though he knew it was inevitable that the Enemy would be alerted to their movement, he wished that the moment of discovery be delayed to the utmost.

The Road wended through the eastern escarpment of an unnamed peak. As he awaited Gandalf, Aragorn looked to where Mirkwood beckoned. He stared at the dark shapes on the horizon, and recalled his last journey into the Forest. Then his thoughts strayed and he turned to the South, _Who knows when I will visit again----,_ he stopped himself as a frown settled upon his brow. _Nay, live not in days still beyond reach, though your fate begins to take shape, Aragorn son of Arathorn._ He raised his hood then and turned his thoughts to the path ahead. 


	6. Under Shadow Eaves

**INTO THE DARK AGAIN**

by_ Wayfarer  
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)_

**Four  
****Under Shadow Eaves**

At last the travellers' feet touched earth, yellow mottled by withered swathes of green. The long-dried fields of summer was giving way to the cool grip of late autumn. They drew nearer the River and the Forest beyond. Upon the eastern bank of the Anduin they stood, as the river split itself, embracing the boulders that sat in its path before its waters melded again past the ford for the southward journey. Laden with the cold of the coming season, its flow was languid.

'Word has come,' a voice rumbled behind them, 'they await you at the forest edge.'

Gandalf turned to look at the big man standing there. 'Thank you, Belen,' he said.

'You have paid the toll,' the Beorning said, as if that was the answer to all the questions in the world.

Reminded of the high price for passage to Mirkwood, a scowl formed on the wizard's brow. Yet Gandalf laughed as Belen met his eyes and raised his brow. 'Indeed,' said Gandalf as he leaned on his staff, his left hand on his hip. The Beorning seemed to consider his word for a moment and then his eyes seared; even his beard was suddenly stiff as the hair on the back of his hands bristled.

Beside Gandalf, Aragorn said nothing even as the wizard's brows raised and a glint suffused the twinkle in his eyes.

From a distance came the sudden cacophony of birdcalls. For a long moment, naught save the lazy murmur of the river could be heard.

'You should be on your way now,' Belen said darkly, though those clearly were not his intended words. 'My duty ends here. But you shall be safe while you are on the Road.' He cast a pointed look at the old man. 'Though, at your pace, they would have to wait longer than they are accustomed to.'

Gandalf's grip on his staff tightened, and his jaw clenched. But before he could reply, the big man had turned away. To Aragorn he said: 'Farewell, Strider.'

'And may your watch be safe,' Aragorn said.

The Beorning inclined his head and made his way with amazing grace for a man of his size across the Old Ford and beyond to the western bank of the River.

While Gandalf stared at the vanishing shadow of Belen, Aragorn raised his hood and stepped forward, at the same time hiding the smile that had began to light his face.

'Well!' Gandalf muttered as he turned from the River. 'Beorn himself would not take that tone with me ----' He stopped when he saw Aragorn was no longer beside him. He scowled. 'Strider ----'

The Ranger did not turned back. 'The day grows long,' he said mildly before lengthening his stride.

After a moment, a sigh could be heard, then footfalls. With Gandalf following, he walked onto the Road, a well-kept pathway that was wide enough for two horses to run abreast. Due east it ran, straight and true, even as it disappeared into the horizon, where it breached the Forest and plunged onward, to the River Running and to places beyond.

Behind him, Gandalf stopped and looked at it for long moments, his lips pursed in thought. At length he said: 'At times it seems----,' he shook his head. He smiled, wordless. Though he spoke not, Aragorn could discern in his eyes memories, some recalled with fondness, while others welled up of their own will.

In turn, Aragorn said no word: his own smile sufficed for an answer. Then he lengthened his stride, accustomed as he was to scouting ahead. But Gandalf lingered still. Then he took a deep breath and clutching his cloak tight against the cold, he began to walk.

'Well, at the least, a decent meal is at hand,' he muttered to himself. Then softly, he began to sing:

_The Road goes ever on and on  
Out from the door where it began.  
Now far ahead the Road has gone,  
Let others follow it who can!  
Let them a journey new begin,  
But I at last with weary feet  
Will turn towards the lighted inn,  
My evening-rest and sleep to meet... ..._1  
.

So it was that two travellers cloaked in grey reached the border of Mirkwood Forest as autumn waned.

The Road ran on, an open invitation to follow it to its end, careless of the trees upon its flanks even as it faded in the distance, blended into the grey shadows.

From their lofty heights, the trees seem to bend their heads, frowning in disapproval at the intrusion of the pathway through their midst, a scar that rived their hold of the Forest. Still they guarded their secrets jealously: naught could be discerned of what lied beyond the road for boles of enormous girth stood densely together, and kept prying eyes at bay.

The sudden trill of a thrush seemed to ring through the Forest, though its gentle song was soft, as if it did not desire to disturb the still air.

From among the dense trees, an answer came at length, a short rapid trill. Aragorn turned back, and saw that Gandalf too had stopped. He kept his eyes on the trees that stood upon the left of the Road then, as if seeking something, or a sign. At length he stopped. Gandalf was not far behind him.

Overhead, the bird perched upon an overhanging branch, looking with much interest at the curious travellers, turning his head this way and that, hopping first to the left and then the right. Then he raised his head and from his throat, a song burst forth. After a moment, another song seemed to thread itself through his, startling him into silence. He seemed to consider the hidden song. A quick protest was trilled, and he again looked at Aragorn. Suddenly he took wing, leaving only an echo of his uncompleted ode.

'Lle desiel?' Aragorn said softly as Gandalf drew abreast.

'Yis.'

They turned aside from the Road, the crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot the only hint of their presence as they passed between gnarled trunks draped in moss and other climbing plants for they were quickly swallowed by the gloom. Slow progress was made, for it was no simple task to tell shadow from coiled roots at the feet of the great trees; they had to walk with care, often having to climb over giant veins, under fallen limbs and step onto ground hidden under darkness.

Suddenly, the trees no longer stood so close to each other. Beyond the forbidding wall, two Elves stood waiting with horses, well-trained beasts that remained calm despite the travellers' sudden appearance.

'Quel re,' said Gandalf. 'It is good to see you, Egalmoth.'

The Elf inclined his head as he returned the greeting: 'Mae Govannen, Mithrandir.' Egalmoth turned then to the Man beside him. The Beornings sent word only of a Ranger companion, and yet, despite the grey light he knew who the tall Man must be. 'And to you, Dúnadan, aaye.'

'Aaye, Egalmoth,' Aragorn replied, 'Mae Govannen!'

The Elf smiled, 'I had not thought we would meet again.'

Aragorn inclined his head, flashing a quick smile in reply. 'It is good to see you again.'

Egalmoth beckoned the other Elf to step forth.

Turning slightly, Aragorn said: 'Elen sila lumenn omentilmo.'

'Elen sila lumenn omentilmo,' said he in a soft voice. 'I am Dinhorn.'

'Mae Govannen, Dinhorn' said Gandalf.

'Aaye, Dinhorn,' Aragorn said. 'Mae Govannen.'

'Come,' said Egalmoth, holding out the reins of two horses. He looked around, 'Keep your hoods up.'  
Under the twilight green of the Mirkwood sky, their ride was swift and sure with Egalmoth in the lead and Dinhorn in the rear. They set out northward, and their ride kept ever to their right dark peaks in the distance. Between trunks of enormous girth and through sweeping beards of lichen the horses galloped, and yet even a sure hand and fleet hooves were no match for the distance they needed to cover between them and the halls of Thranduil.

The green light faded in the face of true twilight and soon after they halted. Among bare-boughed trees the night was spent, and in the faint moonlight behind them shadows of dark peaks, the Mountains of Mirkwood that clove the Forest loomed.

As the next morning dawned, hinting at its early rise with the dappled light of the Mirkwood day, they were already wending their way under shadow eaves.

They came upon the unmarked path long used by Thranduil's folk. There their ride was smooth, speeding them on their way.

Faster, ever faster they urged the horses until the Enchanted River came into sight. Lightly, they cleared the narrow water. The path ran on and vanished into the Forest River, leading to the isle that rose like a ghostly fist reaching for the sky. On it was the sullen knoll that looked ever northward. There, they parted company with the path, and followed the River's flow, past the isle to where the banks came closest together.

Clear on the far bank were clusters of hills, marking the seat of the Elven-king. Quickly they forded the water, and urged the horses forward, eager to gain the halls before the day failed again. They slowed before a huge mound covered in moss and leaves of many hues.

Under the lee of a protruding rock, a part of the mound seemed to retreat and a line clove it neatly as the great stone doors of the Elven-king's halls swung inward and opened onto a yawning gap, a hole of darkness amongst shadows.

Egalmoth urged his mount through and the others quickly followed, and found themselves plunged into a long passageway of which a faint circle of light could be seen at the end. The hoof-beat of the horses echoed faintly, and as Aragorn's eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he could see where the high ceiling of the passage came down to join ledges and small windows designed to allow archers easy sight upon those who passed through.

Through the damp passage was the main gallery, and it was much as Aragorn remembered.

And as was his wont, the king's steward, Galion, stood ready to welcome the guests. 'Mae Govannen, Mithrandir,' he said, 'And to you, Dúnadan, aaye. Thranduil bids you welcome.' Turning to Egalmoth, he said: 'Captain, you are free for now, but the king bade you wait on his pleasure when he returns.'

The captain tipped his head. Turning to Gandalf, he said: 'Then this is where we part for the moment, Mithrandir, Dúnadan. 'Quel re.' So saying, he turned into another hallway with Dinhorn by his side.

'The king is away in the north,' Galion said apologetically. 'He shall return on the morrow.' He eyed the travellers succinctly: 'I am sure you are ready for a bath, and food served on proper plates. Come, your rooms are this way.'

Through the long halls of the Elven-king Galion led them, past curious onlookers who stared at the rare sight of guests.

Where the halls of Imladris were adorned with priced tapestries and rich paintings of the sagas of old, and sculptures trumpeted the pride of elven craftsmen from elaborate alcoves, many of the walls in Thranduil's halls were bare, the only memory of what must have once covered them traced by squares of lighter hue than the walls were wont to be. And once lovingly crafted alcoves sometimes stood empty, some fain near to collapse. Aragorn felt a touch of sadness at the phantom glamour that languished.

'Seven and ten years2, as reckoned by Men, have passed since you first came to Thranduil's Halls,' said Galion who had turned and saw Aragorn lingering over a painting where green veins crept down and outward from a corner. 'A mere blink of the eye to us.' He gestured at the ruined painting, 'And yet, look how it has conquered, the decay.' He shook his head. 'We have not time to spare under the lengthening shadow,' he said almost wistfully. 'Our thoughts are bent upon other crafts, and our time given to border watches. Only, whenever we may, we move what handicrafts we can to the vaults until such time when we can repair and restore their beauty.' They stood silent, and Gandalf also gazed at the painting. Then Galion said, 'I hope you find better cheer in these hallways when you next visit.'

Now the steward stood at the far end, holding a door open for the guests. And as they came nigh the heavy door, Galion beckoned them through. 'Fine craftwork these halls may be getting poor in, but be sure! Fine wine is ever on the king's board.'

First through the door, Gandalf beamed approvingly.

Aragorn turned, but before he spoke, Galion held up a hand and with a knowing smile, moved to another wall where two doors stood side by side. 'The water is freshly drawn. I shall leave you to reacquaint yourselves with bathing,' he said and withdrew with a respectful bow.

'As pert as ever!' said Gandalf. His frown faded as Aragorn offered a tall goblet, the one he held already drained. 'Ah.' Gandalf smiled at the strong aroma. 'Sustenance,' he said, raising his glass. He waited as Aragorn filled his own again.

A clink of glass was followed by a moment of silence as they took long slow drafts. Gandalf grimaced as his throat seemed to burn, so long away from fine vintage that the Dorwinion was leaving a fiery trail of its passage into his guts.

'Tis but a hint of what we face in this meeting with Thranduil,' said Gandalf, his voice rasping. He coughed but held up a hand as Aragorn set down his glass and quickly strode over. 'A true friend he may be, but his quick-fire wit perceives much. I would not wish for him to learn of things that are yet to be, and not yet for him to know.' Aragorn nodded in understanding, for if Thranduil did not mark him before, this meeting may yet bend the Elf's thoughts to him.

Gandalf sighed and cleared his still discomfited throat. 'I am soundly reminded of my task!' He inspected the empty glass with an ironic glare. 'Say naught of the truth,' he laughed softly 'and yet no falsehoods will I tell.' He turned to Aragorn, 'Nor can I, not with one such as Thranduil.'

'He returns tomorrow, Galion says. He may not hold the meeting anon,' said Aragorn.

'Yes, a respite in which I can set my thoughts,' said Gandalf. So saying, he disappeared into one of the rooms.

Aragorn lingered. He gazed around the room. Even the most difficult guest could not fault the hospitality of the Woodland Elves: at the table, he reached out and held the side of the stewpot, sensing the warmth of the bubbling broth within. Then he traced the edge of a dinner plate, feeling the design of the delicate motif. 'And food served on proper plates,' he echoed Galion with a soft laugh. Then with his glass filled again, he sat down to a dinner he had long yearned for: warm and hearty.  
.  
.

Elegant lamps adorned the walls of the room, and through the slanting skylight, the light lent its pale touch. Against two walls on opposing sides of the room, dark wood shelves stood, stretching from floor to ceiling. In them were row upon row of books and scrolls.

They awaited Thranduil in his study. Gandalf watched Aragorn as he studied the tapestry set in the far wall, above a large desk. His unwavering stare was fixed on a detail of the weave. Its design was much like the wall-paintings of the Last Alliance in the House of Elrond. On it the mighty hosts of Gil-galad were gathered in the distance, golden in the splendour of their fine battledress, bright swords held aloft. But in the fore breaking their bodies upon the Black Gates were many Elves, their simple armour and swords marking them as separate from the great army. Among them a kingly Elf bleeding from many wounds was under relentless attack, while beneath him, a large dark shape was drawing him into the ground. But what held Aragorn's gaze was another who strove in vain to reach the stricken king. Very like to the fallen Elf he was, and in his eyes was a look of many emotions: rage, fear, shock, disbelief, grief. But above all, he seemed overcome with horror at the king's certain fate. Along the right side of his face, a gash gaped.3

'The wound heals not,' he murmured.

Gandalf sighed. 'As is his wont.'

The quicksilver of Aragorn's eyes seemed to burn for an instant. Distracted from the weave, he turned. Gandalf followed his gaze.

In the now open doorway, a tall Elf stood, striking fair in the manner of his kind. The living face of the horrified Elf returned Aragorn's gaze. To Gandalf he approached, as quietly as he opened the door, and clasped white hands upon the wizard's shoulders.

'Aaye, Mithrandir,' said Thranduil with a warm smile. 'I hear word of your injuries crossing the Hithaeglir.' He looked at Gandalf keenly. 'Have your needs been seen to?'

'Indeed! Galion has provided us well with the generosity of your board,' Gandalf smiled. Thranduil replied with another quick smile. 'And I am ---- much mended now,' the wizard said, his voice wry with intimation. 'Though I might have been much less well for this meeting, but for ----'

The Elf held up a hand, 'Yes.' He turned to the man, 'Mae Govannen, Aragorn Dúnadan.'

Aragorn inclined his head. 'Mae Govannen, Thranduil.'

The Elf returned the courtesy. Then he strode to his desk beneath the tapestry. 'There is no need for ceremony,' he said, gesturing at chairs set before the table. He waited for Gandalf to make himself comfortable, and then his brows arched in interest as he eyed the Man anew. 'So we meet again.'

Once before had Aragorn met the Elf, when he sought passage through the Forest Road on his journey into the East. The missive that Elrond, his foster father, insisted he hand personally to the Elven-king was the only reason he was granted an audience. Then, as now, Thranduil wore his kingship like a mantle with the ease of long use. There was no mirth in his fair face. Yet in his eyes afire with a quick sly wit, a merry look sometimes gleamed, though it was wont to be quickly supplanted by some lingering pain. His presence was almost elemental, the forceful aura of a leader not given to nonsense. Aragorn had thought the faint scar marring his face a new wound, for Elves were quick to heal.

Yet now as Thranduil stood beneath his own likeness, it seemed as if the weave served a purpose: it was clear the changes that had been wrought upon the Elven-king by long toil and maybe by design. On his right cheek still was that long uneven line running from temple to chin. A faint tracery, Aragorn knew then, of the terrible wound that had held his attention on the weave. Despite the prideful confidence of his bearing, Thanrduil bore in his eyes memories of that fateful day, now far in the past4.

Their eyes met for a moment, and Thranduil's lips curved into a half-smile. Then he folded his arms, eyes hooded. 'Well, Dúnadan,' he said. It seemed he was amused by a private jest that another has seen through, 'Have you another secret letter from Imladris?'

'I bear no letter this time,' Aragorn said.

Gandalf deemed it time to speak and clearing his throat, said: 'He is my guide, and guard.'

'So I see,' answered the Elf. Then he turned back to the Man, his piercing gaze alight like a child who had set aside a puzzle and now found it irresistible.

'A guide----to where?' he asked Gandalf then. 'Surely you would not need help to find my woodland realm?'

'No,' said the wizard.

'Ah, you seek passage into the East then?'

'No,' said the wizard again.

'I do not understand,' Thranduil said, almost lightly, 'what, then, can your purpose in my realm be?'

After a sidelong glance at Aragorn, Gandalf returned his attention to the Elf. 'Thranduil,' he said, and there was an edge to his voice, 'if I have not known you these long years, I would have thought it your habit to stir your guests' ire.'

The Elf smiled and bowed his head: 'It is no pleasure of mine.' Then he spoke to Gandalf as if Aragorn was not in the seat next to his. 'He has rule of the Dúnedain, a leaderless realm so we hear, and from Elrond, he bore a letter, a missive of great import. Then he passed through my realm and journeyed into the East. More remarkable, he returned out of that wild unknown place. And now he is here again, a guide to Mithrandir.' He turned his piercing gaze to the Man. 'I merely wonder what hidden thing might he be bearing now?'

'Well!' said Gandalf, 'if there be secrets, they are his own to keep. As it is for yours or mine.' He placed a hand on the large desk and leaned forward, saying in earnest: 'But come, even were he to have any, they are of no moment to the Woodland Elves. That I assure you.'

Thranduil laughed, a short bitter sound. 'Maybe so. And yet, here in my realm, my rule is built on more than surety.'

'Come, come, Thranduil! Doubt my word, do you?' Gandalf said lightly. 'Is the hospitality of the Woodland Realm sunk so low that you will offer your best Dorwinion to a friend with the one hand and cast out his word with the other?' His lips pressed into a line, unseen beneath his beard. Thranduil frowned. Gandalf sat the straighter, shifting his grip on his staff. 'Tell me plainly,' he continued, 'What would suffice to appease the Elven-king?'

Still the Elf was silent.

Impatience, maybe, set the wizard's eyes ablaze suddenly. Gandalf seemed to fill the room. 'Again I say: I will vouch for the Dúnadan.'

Scowling, Thranduil too straightened himself. Almost, a crack of thunder could be heard as he locked eyes with Gandalf.

In the contest of wills between these beings who have lived through Ages, Aragorn sat like an rock rooted to the seabed, unmovable in the tossing storm.

Then it was suddenly over.

'Peace, Mithrandir,' said the Elf. He eyed Aragorn anew. Then his gaze returned to Gandalf, his head proudly raised. 'Understand, I do not give offense willingly. If I am forward, it is only prudence that drives me to it.' He stared down the bridge of his nose a moment longer. Then he dipped his head. 'I accept your word, Mithrandir,' he said softly. 'Now tell me: what drives you to seek my realm despite the treachery of a late crossing over the mountains?' He sounded affable, and yet on his face was a hard look.

Gandalf stroked his long grey beard, and eyed Thranduil, appraising his suddenly agreeable manner. He cleared his throat. 'Well.' Then he smiled. 'A small matter to you.'

'Small, you say?' Thranduil leaned forward, and in his bright eyes a piercing light suddenly kindled. 'A merry chase after some mysterious flesh-eater it was the last time,' he leaned back, his head resting against the high chair, 'And a fierce clash beyond my eastern border and the casting of Shadow from our abode of old also5.' He frowned and shook his head, 'Nay, I will not begrudge you the last for that was to the good of all and a great deed I will not soon forget. But two chief deeds at once were a little over-much to manage in my humble woodland realm.'

'Come now, Thranduil,' Gandalf said, 'the Battle was not of my doing ---- '

'Indeed,' he said in a cold voice, 'You merely led the chief trouble-makers to my door, and left the mess to unravel itself.'

'Ah, but I had another task to manage,' said Gandalf reasonably, 'and even I cannot be in two places at once.'

Thranduil dipped his head. 'Well do I know it,' he said, 'And but for the errantry of the Grey Wanderer, the truth of the Shadow of Dol Guldur may still be hidden, free to threaten the safety of my realm under the guise of a lesser being. Still, there is much also, for which I desire answers to: burning questions that have not dimmed with the passage of time. But come, let us not dwell overmuch on past bravery,' he said with a suddenly pleasant tone, 'or misdeeds.'

'Misdeeds!' Gandalf muttered.

Thranduil heeded not the displeasure in his voice. 'Reminiscence is for the dinner table.' He eyed Gandalf then, a sharp look that have cowed many. Yet in reply, Gandalf returned a look as sharp, and then faint smiles lighted the faces of Elf and Wizard. Thranduil again dipped his head, and there was genuine warmth in his smile. But it quickly faded. 'I cannot but wonder: what will come of this "small matter", Mithrandir?' he said with a sidelong glance at the Man. He considered his guests. Then folding his arms, he leaned back into his seat. Yet, he held up a hand before Gandalf spoke. 'And yet, have the Woodland Elves ever refused your requests for aid?' Sighing, he said: 'Truly, we do not have Elves to spare, not unless it was for a need most pressing. So ----'

The word hung in the air, lingering as Gandalf sat in a reflective mood, and Aragorn as quiet. At last, running out of patience or maybe to remind Gandalf he was not alone, Thranduil tapped the table with a fine-boned finger.

Gandalf grunted, and stroked his beard. 'It is for the abandoned hunt that we come.'

Now it was the Elf who sat silent, first looking from one to the other of his guests.

Gandalf cleared his throat, and leaned forward. 'You wonder, what has rekindled my interest?'

In his turn, Thranduil rested his head on a fisted hand, lightly tapping his temple. Then he too leaned forward. 'Pray,' he said in a conspiratorial tone, 'Enlighten me.'

Gandalf sat back, his eyes a steely grey. 'You know my purpose _here_, Thranduil.'

Thranduil returned a look as grave. He turned his head, eyes lingering on the terrible weave. 'Of course,' he said.

'Time and again, we haveheld Him back,' Gandalf said, his hand spread toward the tapestry. 'Since His last test, we have managed to keep a frail peace. But while the quiet has calmed many hearts, I fear our guard has been blunted by it.' He held up a hand for Thranduil to hear him out. 'I know, the Woodland realm had yet to taste the peace that covered the land, for the strife that was spread out through the realms seemed gathered unto the Forest. And you, your calls to arms had been unheeded; perhaps, unwisely.

'Call it folly, call it what you will. Yet, there is a time and place for everything.' He stopped, and watched as a strange light crept into Thranduil's eyes. 'Yes, my friend, even war. Still, I will not deny that while we waited, the world is changing, for He is restless.' Disbelief and rapture filled Thranduil's face. Gandalf nodded. 'Now, no longer will there be rest for the restful.' He studied the Elf for a moment, 'My work presses, for _He_ is moving.'

Through hooded eyes, Thranduil gazed at Gandalf. His face darkened, and his thoughts were closed. 'He is always stirring,' he said in a careful voice. 'For three thousand years and more, the free people held against Him. The Woodland realm has weathered His interest before.' He set his jaw. 'We will endure,' he said.

Gandalf caught the quick look he cast at Aragorn. 'And yet, at times, heavy is the price in exchange,' he returned, glancing at the tapestry. 'You will bargain for the hope of learning things that will prove little no use to your Realm? For mark my words, what you seek to know is nothing against my need, against Arda's needs.' Quickly, before Thranduil spoke, Gandalf continued, 'And the next time He puts forth his might, it may no longer be another mere test of strength.' Thranduil's eyebrow arched with an elegant question. 'I cannot tell you all now.' Gandalf placed a heavy palm on the table. 'Only this, the creature may hold some clue – to what must come to pass,' he said.

The Elven-king frowned. He stared at his guests. 'Ere the end that must be.' Again, Gandalf has given an answer that did not lay his questions to rest. And the Dúnadan still held his secrets close.

A quick decision must be made, he knew. With great care, he weighed the choices. It was plain that Gandalf would tell naught of the Man. And yet, laid bare were the clues that held up his suspicions. No more could be made of them in this meeting, and the practical bent of his mind would not allow him to squander the time needed to delve for answers, though he was enjoying the challenge of crossing wills with the Wizard.

Over his face, a smile passed as he came to a decision. 'Very well, you have leave to resume the hunt.'

Gandalf nodded. 'Egalmoth ----'

'Will be ready to aid the Dúnadan.'

'They must leave by first light.'

'Of course.' He turned to Aragorn, 'You shall require time to prepare yourself.' Aragorn nodded, and rose. 'By your leave, Thranduil.'

The Elf returned his bow.

As the door closed softly behind the Man, Thranduil said, 'He has the looks of him.' He turned to Gandalf. 'One whom I knew but briefly.' He shook his head, and almost, a faint smile curved his lips. 'But he is now long gone, even by elvish reckoning.' He looked sidelong at the wizard, watching as a slow frown crept across his forehead. He smiled. 'Now, what news, Mithrandir? Tell me of matters beyond my realm.'

'What?' Thranduil raised a brow in graceful question. Gandalf shook his head, 'Without a drink to soothe my parched throat?'

A merry sound echoed, a hearty laugh rarely heard outside the room. 'Forgive the ill-manners of this host!' Thranduil said. Quickly he strode to the door, and called for Galion, his steward.

Gandalf sat back, relieved and satisfied. Recounting news, and embellishing tales to hold Thranduil's attention.would be a far more manageable task. Now he need only wait for Aragorn's return.

* * *

**FOOTNOTES:**

**1** Lord Of The Rings: Fellowship Of The Ring, from the chapter "A Long-expected Party".

**2 **From these quotes in the Lord Of The Rings - Appendices; Appendix A, 2983/2984 was picked as the period Aragorn started out from Imladris bound for the East, and passage through Mirkwood was deduced as the logical route.

From 'Here Follows A Part Of The Tale Of Aragorn And Arwen':

"_He rode in the host of the Rohirrim, and fought for the Lord of Gondor by land and by sea; and then in the hour of victory he passed out of the knowledge of the Men of the West, and went alone far into the East and deep into the South, exploring the hearts of Men, both evil and good, and uncovering the plots and devices of the servants of Sauron."_

"_It came to pass that when Aragorn was nine and forty years of age he returned from perils on the dark confines of Mordor... He was weary and he wished to return to Rivendelland rest there a while ere he journeyed into the far countries... "_

From 'Gondor and the Heirs of Anárion':

"_There was dismay in the City at the departure of Thorongil, and to all men it seemed a great loss, unless it were Denethor, the son of Ecthelion, a man now ripe for the Stewardship, to which after four years, he succeeded on the death of his father."_

**3** Unfinished Tales, "The History Of Galadriel And Celeborn". _"…Oropher was slain in the first assault upon Mordor, rushing forward at the head of his most doughty warriors before Gil-galad had given the signal for advance. Thranduil his son survived, but when the war ended and Sauron was slain (as it seemed) he led back home barely a third of the army that had marched to war…."_

**4** Unfinished Tales, "The History Of Galadriel And Celeborn". _"…. But there was in Thranduil's heart a still deeper shadow. He had seen the horror of Mordor and could not forget it. If ever he looked south its memory dimmed the light of the Sun, and though he knew that it was under the vigilance of the Kings of Men, fear spoke in his heart that it was not conquered for ever: it would rise again."_

Please note: all scarring and other physical trauma inflicted on Thranduil are brands of **_Avallon_**'s Thranduil!template.

**5** The Lord Of The Rings - Appendices; Appendix B, 'The Tale Of Years'. The entry for Third Age, 2941: _"Thorin Oakenshield and Gandalf visits Bilbo in the Shire. Bilbo meets Sméagol-Gollum and finds the ring. The White Council meets; Saruman agrees to an attack on Dol Guldur, since he now wishes to prevent Sauron from searching the River. Sauron having made his plans abandons Dol Guldur. The Battle of the Five Armies in Dale. Death of Thorin II. Bard of Esgaroth slays Smaug. Dáin of the Iron Hills becomes King under the Mountain (Dáin II)"_


End file.
